


wish come true (all i want for christmas, is you)

by Oubliette14



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Christmas, Equestrian, Fluff and Humor, Horseback Riding, Ice Skating, M/M, POV David Rose, Patrick Brewer is a Button, Patrick Brewer is a Troll, Sharing a Bed, Singing, Snowed In, but it's okay because he likes it, everyone makes fun of david, patrick brewer has an acoustic guitar and he knows how to use it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28504593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oubliette14/pseuds/Oubliette14
Summary: “You know who I am,” David says, surprised.Patrick nods, motioning him back out into the barn aisle. “I’ve followed Canadian show jumping most of my life. When Ray mentioned a David Rose was coming in for an interview, I refreshed my memory.”David nods about twelve times in a row as he follows Patrick down the aisle, and yeah, now he’s probably the one blushing. “Okay, while this is flattering, and I haven’t had much of that lately, I’m fairly certain I’m supposed to be the one trying to impress you.”Stopping, Patrick turns to face him. He leans casually against the wall and crosses those beefy forearms over his chest. “Oh, did you think I was trying to impress you?”-The Rose family moves to Schitt's Creek as they did in season 1, expect David doesn't just have himself to worry about. He has a horse he can't afford but is unwilling to sell. His search for both a job and new home for Valentina leads him to Ray's farm, and to Patrick. Oh, and make it Christmas time.(AKA the Schitt's Creek Christmas Equestrian AU no one asked for.)
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 41
Kudos: 203





	wish come true (all i want for christmas, is you)

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in a very long time, and never in this fandom, but 2020 was a lot, and I just wanted to write something silly and light and relatively pointless. This was the result. If it makes you laugh or smile even a little, I'll consider it a success. 
> 
> Originally I was going to post it in sections, but I got delayed finishing it, and now it's after Christmas, so congrats, you get it all at once. 
> 
> Stay safe and take care! <3

David perches on the edge of one of the motel room’s tweed chairs, with a protective layer of towel between the soiled material and his very expensive pants, and tries to decide which is more abhorrent: the entirety of the space he has been forced to call home, or the text he just received. 

If David had the money to buy a new one, he would hurl his phone at the hideous teal wall, or perhaps ask Stevie to find him a sledge hammer, because he’s not actually positive what one of those looks like, just that they’re meant for smashing things. 

And he would like to smash a lot of things. His phone. Sebastian's face. Most of this motel. The list goes on.

Instead of destroying it, he places his phone carefully on the table and exhales violently. “Her name is Valentina!” he screech-whispers at the water-stained ceiling as Alexis strides out of their bathroom, twisting the end of her ponytail around her finger. 

She snags his phone off the table to read the text, because never once in David’s life has any member of his family ever minded their own business. “Aww,” she coos, booping him on the nose, “Seb wants to buy Tina? That is SO nice of him.”

David stands and flails for his phone, trying to wrestle it back before Alexis can reply to the text with an indecipherable assortment of emojis. “No! NO. Let go! Give it-” 

Growling, David takes a step back to rethink his plan of attack. The thing about Alexis is, she’s always been a pain in his ass, but she’s never been particularly intelligent or far sighted about it. Blindly grabbing for an article of clothing that has exploded out of her suitcase and onto the floor, he lifts it and waves it in the air. It’s a cute little lace dress—one he knows she’s fond of. “I will scrub the toilet with this!” he threatens. 

“Ew, David,” Alexis says, scrunching up her nose. “Ugh. Fine. Here.” She shoves his phone back into his waiting hand and grabs her dress in exchange, cradling it protectively against her chest. Then she looks up at him, eyes narrowing. “Wait. You’ve never scrubbed a toilet in your life.” 

He wonders if she might continue with that line of thought, but instead she just takes a seat cross-legged at the foot of her unmade bed, stroking the dress like a cat. “So?”

David locks his phone and raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. “So? What?”

“Duh! Are you going to sell her?” 

“Choke on a jawbreaker,” he says scathingly.

“Mmm, actually, I almost did that once, but there was this hot—”

“Whom are we selling?” his mother asks, flouncing in through the adjoining door, Maureen swishing atop her head, sequins glittering across her shoulders. “Is it your sister?” Because you know, there was this episode of Sunrise Bay in which—”

David grits his teeth, and a moment later, right on cue, “We have something to sell?” his dad asks. “Why, this is great news, son!” 

“Not we! There is no _we_ here! _ME_ ,” David shouts, pointing at his chest. “She is _mine_! And there is nothing to sell! No one is being sold! I am not selling Valentina! Not to Sebastian Raine! Not to anyone!”

David Rose has owned a lot of things in his life. Up until his father’s business manager screwed them all out of their wonderfully plush lifestyle, he always had the latest iPhone in his pocket, access to the newest and hottest technology. He updated his wardrobe yearly with one of a kind pieces bought straight off the runway at Paris Fashion Week. He owned walls full of art and a gallery and an apartment in New York City decked with high end furniture more suited to being photographed for an interior design magazine than being lounged upon. He’s spent the bulk of his life buying things he doesn’t even want, things he has no use for, things forgotten a day later.

Very little of what he’s owned in his life has been _his_ in a way that actually matters.

But Valentina, she matters. She’s _his_. 

He may not have much more to his name now than the contents of several suitcases and this joke of a town called Schitt’s Creek, but if the universe wants to take Valentina away, it’s going to have to pry her out of his cold, dead hands. 

It started out as a joke. He was twenty and drunk and bought the horse on a dare. A year later, he was under the tutelage of southern Ontario's top show jumping trainers. A year after that, he was competing stateside and wintering in Florida. By twenty-four, he was riding Grand Prix classes all over the continent. He had Olympic hopes until Valentina fractured her coffin bone and was forced into semi-retirement. His life shifted toward the art scene then, but he still made a point of taking the helicopter out of the city to the sprawling farm in upstate New York each weekend to ride. 

Valentina is the one thing he did himself. Sure, his parents’ money paid the board and bought his tack and flew him around the country, but the actual riding? Working in tandem with a 1200 pound animal to jump around a Grand Prix course without a fault? That bond? Their connection? That can't be bought. That was his own blood and sweat and tears, determination and perseverance. Tina is a reminder that he _is_ capable of hard work and success. That he's more than money, more than his last name, more than a fabulous lay.

His relationship with the mare is the healthiest he's ever had with anything living and breathing. Which he realises probably isn't something to brag about, but he’s proud, goddammit, and he’s not about to let Sebastian fucking Raine buy her because he can’t afford upwards of $1200 a month to keep her at her current boarding facility outside of Toronto. 

Problem is, December 1st is only a week away, and he needs to relocate her before then. 

“Day-vid!” his mother wails. “If you really won’t sell her, perhaps it is time to say your goodbyes. I do recall her seeming rather aged, what with the white upon her face. She was doing quite poorly last I recall! Could scarcely walk, the poor thing. Euthanasia can be a kindness, you know.” 

“Oh my god!” David exclaims, his hands flailing unproductively as if torn between strangling his mother and yanking at his hair. “You haven’t seen her in nearly a decade! That was right after the accident. She’s fine now!” He tilts his head back in exasperation and then immediately reminds himself that he needs to stop looking at the ceiling in times of distress because there’s a stain up there that looks like Jesus and he so does not need that judgement. “And the white on her face has been there since she was born! They’re markings! Horses have those!”

“I am sorry I am not an expert in all matters equine, David! How am I to know what passes for a mere plebeian trait?” she laments dramatically before fleeing the room. The adjoining door slams, but rather than latching, it rebounds off the door frame and comes to a stop wide open.

Apparently this motel is so defective, one can't even slam a door properly.

“Son…” his dad starts, approaching him like a cornered beast. “We can’t afford—”

“You think I don’t know that?” David shouts, his voice going high and shrieky. “Our toilet paper disintegrates the second moisture touches it, and we’re drinking instant coffee out of Styrofoam cups. I’m sleeping on a twin bed three feet away from my sister!”

Alexis presses her lips together as if she somehow finds this funny, and it tightens the knot of anxiety in David’s chest. He balls his hands into fists and throws himself down on his bed, facing the ceiling. Jesus stares down at him and David flops to his side with a huff. “ _I know_ ,” he says, his voice gone quiet.

Eyes closed, he pictures Valentina. Her glossy black coat, four white socks, and the perfectly symmetrical heart on her forehead. He knows her whinny, the peace he feels sitting astride her back. She’s his heart horse. She’s the best part of him. And when he’s with her, he actually likes who he is. 

“I’ll figure it out,” he insists. 

He has to. 

* * *

After an hour spent searching his phone for an appropriate job proves fruitless, David realises that Schitt’s Creek has apparently not stepped foot into the 21st century, so he’s going to have to look elsewhere for that information. Leaving the room and Alexis’s unhelpful suggestions behind, he enters the motel office. 

“Hi, um… question,” he says as he approaches the desk where Stevie is violently stapling papers together. He doesn’t want to ask anyone for help, and he’s not positive she won’t just laugh in his face, but so far she’s only been mean to him in a way that while mocking, is somehow comforting in its predictability. 

“If one were to, theoretically, look for a job, here, in Schitt’s Creek,” he begins, arms crossed as he leans on the counter. “Where would you… suggest that that person go to look? Is there, like, a bulletin board or a pamphlet, or something with information on it?”

“No, no bulletin board,” Stevie says as she reaches for the newspaper. “What kind of job are you looking for?”

David leans forward, surprised at how helpful she’s being, how completely and genuinely pleasant. It’s probably a trap. “Um, something in like, art curating, or trend forecasting.”

“Oh, okay, hmmm, let’s see,” she says seriously as she scans the paper. “Not seeing anything in art curating, or trend forecasting.” She widens her eyes, faux-shocked and taps the paper as she adds, “That’s weird.”

And oh, there it is, there’s the sarcasm. “Okay,” he manages, but she’s still talking.

“Um, do you have any other skills or areas of expertise?” she asks with a straight face. 

“Uh, I’ve been told I have really good taste?” David supplies, knowing it’s thin and laughable and not likely to get him anywhere.

“Oh, well, that’s… good.” Her expression says it really isn’t. “Uh, so, absolutely nothing else?”

“I, um, I know horses? Would that… do you think maybe someone is looking for a coach for a riding school?” He could be a coach. Kids are loud, obnoxious petri dishes of communicable disease, but he could teach them, if he had to. 

Stevie looks down at the paper again. “Nothing listed, but farms around here, they mostly hire by word of mouth. I’d head over to the café. Twyla rides. She might know someone.”

Okay, so not exactly the slamdown? touchdunk? David was hoping for, but at this point, it’s an avenue and he’s willing to follow it. He taps the desk with his fingertips. “Well, something to investigate, for sure, so… thank you.” 

Stevie’s “you’re welcome” trails him out the door. 

* * *

The one and only thing Schitt's Creek has going for it is that pretty much everything is within walking distance. It takes less than twenty minutes to walk from one side of town to the other. Which means the fact that they can’t afford a car isn’t all that much of an issue. 

Well, it’s still very much an issue, but David has spent most of his life walking the streets of Toronto and New York City; he might not be as fit as he was a decade ago during the prime of his show jumping career, but a nine minute walk from the motel into downtown Schitt’s Creek is certainly well within his capabilities. 

Standing on the sidewalk outside of Café Tropical, David looks up at the dual signage and sighs. As far as he's been able to tell in the week he's lived here, it's the town's only dining establishment. 

It’s mid-afternoon on a Tuesday and the café is quiet, so David makes his way to the counter, avoiding eye contact with the handful of locals scattered between the tables and booths. He still feels personally offended by the place, but the food hasn’t killed his family yet, and as they don’t have a kitchen and none of them can cook anyway, it appears he doesn’t get to be choosy. 

Sliding into a chair, he takes off his sunglasses and, as if by magic, Twyla appears. “Good afternoon, David! Here alone? What can I get for you today?” Someone would have to hold a gun to his head before he complimented the decor, but David _will_ admit that the service is prompt, though nauseatingly cheerful.

“Caramel macchiato skim, two sweeteners, and um, do you have cocoa powder?” David asks, setting his sunglasses down on the counter so he can unbutton his jacket. He’s boiling. “Is it extra hot in here?” Or is it the thought of asking for anything resembling charity making him sweat?

“Somewhere around here,” Twyla confirms. Squatting, she disappears behind the counter, then pops back up a moment later. “Ah! Here we go!” She shakes the container gently and flips the lid to sniff it. “Looks good! And I wish I could say we’re just trying to promote a tropical climate here at Café Tropical, but no, the furnace is on the fritz today. Ronnie said she’ll be round later to have a look at it. Takeout cup or mug?” 

David nods toward the takeout cups because spending long enough in here to actually finish his coffee might give him hives along with a heat rash. Shrugging off his jacket, he drapes it over the back of his chair and pulls out his phone. The photo of Valentina on his lock-screen helps bolster his resolve. 

When Twyla sets his drink in front of him and asks if she can get him anything else, he rotates his phone towards her. 

“Oh, wow! What a beauty!” she exclaims. “Is she yours? I didn’t know you were into horses! We used to have ponies when I was a kid. Two little Shetlands who lived in our backyard. Which now that I think about it, probably wasn’t actually allowed, but we loved them and rode them every day after school at the playground.” The look on her face says she’s realising that probably wasn’t all that legal either. “And that explains why animal services came and took them away one day. Anyway, they’re such wonderful animals! I got away from riding for a while, but now I make a point of visiting Ray’s a few times each month! He’s got—”

“Ray’s,” David cuts in before Twyla can set off on another outlandish tale about growing up in Schitt’s Creek. “Do you know if he’s hiring? Or if he offers boarding? I need to move Valentina before the end of the month.” 

Instead of answering, Twyla rises up on her toes and searches the room. David almost snaps his fingers in front of her face to return her wandering focus to the very important matter at hand, but he’s had it pointed out to him several times in his life that doing so is rude and that impatience is not an endearing quality, so he forces himself to sit still and wait. 

“Over there,” Twyla says, pointing to a man at the booth in the corner. “That’s Ray. It’s probably easier if you just ask him yourself. I’ve never been able to keep all of his business ventures straight! I swear he comes up with something new each week! Such an innovator!”

David looks over at the moustached man in the corner. He’s got the newspaper open in front of him and a half-eaten piece of pie at his elbow, a fork in his hand. “He looks busy,” David says, hesitating. He knows this needs to be done, but that still doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t want to be the one to do it. “Are you sure he won’t mind?”

“Oh, no, not at all! You could interrupt Ray in bed, if you know what I mean...” Twyla says with a wink, and David does, but he really wishes he didn’t. “And he would happily chat with you all night!” She hands David a napkin to go with his coffee and makes a shooing motion. “Well, go on! I’ll put this on the Rose family tab. Catch him before he finishes his pie! It’s rare Ray sits still this long!”

With no other options available to him, David hangs his sunglasses from the collar of his sweater, collects his jacket and coffee, and marches over to Ray’s booth. 

Despite Twyla’s reassurance, he still wonders if maybe he should wait elsewhere until Ray finishes his dessert and folds up the newspaper, but before he can back away, the man looks up. Grinning broadly, Ray gestures at the seat on the other side of the booth with his fork. “Oh, hello! Would you like to sit? Have a seat!”

David doesn't want to sit, but he figures refusing might come across as ungrateful, so he slides slowly into the cracking vinyl seat. A strip of fraying duct tape holding the seam together clings to his pants. He peels it away, patting it back down with disgust. The place looks like it’s handed weekly health code violations, but the table top appears clean enough, so he joins his hands atop it and looks up at the still-beaming Indian man. "Um, hi, yes. So… Twyla tells me you're the man to ask about boarding a horse. And, um, also that you might be hiring?"

The man's face somehow splits into an even wider smile. "Indeed I am! Ray Butani, at your service!" he says, stretching his hand across the table enthusiastically. "What can I help you with...?"

David is fairly certain everyone in the town knows his family’s story and all of their names by now, but he wasn't raised in a barn like half the occupants of Schitt's Creek, so he forces a polite smile to his face and extends his hand. "David Rose."

Ray shakes it animatedly, for a full three seconds longer than necessary. David's elbow cracks, protesting the exaggerated movement. 

He’s also fairly certain he just told Ray what it is he needs help with, but apparently, he’s going to have to say it again. "I have a horse. And I need somewhere to keep her. By, uh, the end of the week, ideally. If that’s at all possible? I also, um, don't…" _Don't have a lot of money. Any really._ Is what David fails to choke out. 

Thankfully the words aren't necessary. Ray bobs his head in understanding, still smiling. It makes David's cheeks ache just looking at him. "You're in luck then because we are hiring! Annabelle starts maternity leave next week, and we’ve yet to find a replacement. The position is four and a half days a week and is quite flexible! The cost of board can easily be deducted from your pay!" 

Ray digs a business card out of his wallet. It's fire engine red and cluttered with lettering and, for some reason, sports three different logos. "Come by anytime tomorrow morning for an interview! The address is on the back, but if you head out of town past the motel, it's just a couple kilometres down the road over the railroad tracks. You can’t miss it!" Ray claps his hands together gleefully. “Oh, and you seem like a fellow with pizzazz! If you could also think on it and let me know which of those three logos you like best, that would be positively splendid!”

David is fairly certain he could sit here at Ray’s table and the man would gladly chatter away at him for the rest of the afternoon, but he’s frankly a little horrified at being called a fellow with pizzazz. Also, he’s still roasting and feels that his tolerance for polite social interaction has been thoroughly exceeded for the day, so he excuses himself with a forced smile and a falsely cheerful, “Thank you! I will, um, definitely… see you tomorrow!”

* * *

David wakes the next morning at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m., groggy but too nervous to sleep any longer. Alexis is gone, her bed unmade, and when he looks out the window, there’s half a foot of snow on the ground. The sky is a flat, depressing grey, and flurries are still falling. It also appears that the road has yet to be plowed. 

Studying the outfit he sat out last night, David comes to the unfortunate conclusion that he may have to revise his clothing choices.

Much of his winter barn attire is nearly 300 kilometres away, stored in his locker in the climate controlled tack room at Stonecrest Equestrian Estate. He was planning on skinny jeans paired with Blundstones and a button up under a black Armani crew neck, but his phone claims it’s significantly below freezing, and he has a twenty minute trudge through the snow ahead of him. 

After showering and completing his skin care regimen, David layers merino long johns under a pair of cream breeches, swaps out the Blundstones for leather tall boots, and dons a Sherpa-lined army jacket over a chunky, charcoal cable knit turtleneck. He doesn’t want to flatten his hair with a hat, but the snow will ruin it anyway, so he pulls a toque on and gathers his phone and gloves.

The fact that he makes it out the door without being accosted by a single member of his family is nothing short of miraculous. Locking it behind him, David turns and jumps about a foot in the air. 

“Hi,” Stevie says with a smirk. “I didn’t realise your programming allowed you to power on before ten in the morning.”

“Ha,” David grunts, wishing he had a witty comeback, but it’s early and crafting one is apparently not a feature of his supposed programming at this hour. “What are you doing out here?” he asks instead. “Are you stalking me?”

Stevie nods gravely, leaning against a snow shovel. She’s wrapped up in oversized buffalo plaid with a fur-lined trapper hat on her head. Her gloves are hideous yellow deerskin. “Yes. That’s it. That is exactly what I’m doing. I stole and pawned your mother’s diamond earrings the other day, and now I’m standing here in the snow, just waiting for you to emerge so I can hit you over the head with this plastic snow shovel and abduct you.”

“Okay, well, that sounds needlessly violent.” David looks around and then waves his hand in a downward arc to encompass Stevie’s attire. “Do you have an axe to go with that lumbersexual getup?”

“There’s probably a rusty old chainsaw in the shed with the skeletons around back. Do you want me to go check?”

David blinks at her. He’s fairly certain this is just her brand of humour, but he hasn’t actually known her all that long, and his first thought when they pulled up to the motel had been that it was a fitting set for a b-rated horror film.

“Relax. There aren’t any skeletons,” Stevie says. Then she frowns. “I mean, I can’t _actually_ guarantee that because this place has been around longer than me, and I haven’t done any digging, but if there are any skeletons, I didn’t put them there.”

“Okay,” David says. “That was completely reassuring, and I am going to sleep just fine tonight, thanks.”

Stevie nods as if she believes him, and then mockingly repeats his sweeping hand gesture. “You look nice.” The compliment seems genuine, but honestly, David can’t tell with her so he raises his eyebrows in disbelief. 

“No, really, you do. It’s just, you may be a _little_ overdressed. I’m not sure what kind of barns you’re used to, but I’m pretty sure Ray’s isn’t it.” She points at the buttons on his jacket. “Are those gold-plated?”

David strokes his fingers over the metal. “Okay, first rule of interviews: Dress for the job you want.” Even as he says it, David cringes. He sounds like his dad. 

“Okay, I’m pretty sure the first rule is ‘be on time’, but if you insist,” Stevie says as David blurts out, “Wait! How do you know I have an interview?”

“A little birdie told me. That’s why I’m here. Well, not the only reason. I also work here, but I figured I’d offer you a ride so you don’t have to walk through the snow.”

David searches the lot, but the only car present is an ice and rust crusted, red Ford wagon. He tries to stop it, but he can feel his face twist with revulsion. “Is that, um, your car?”

“Yes. Why?” Stevie looks like she already knows the answer, but she still asks, “Is there something wrong with it, David?”

David tugs at his collar. “Um, I think… I would rather walk?” Stepping out from under the overhang, he toes at the snow. There’s more than he initially thought and it seems to be covering a layer of ice. “Did you sleep here? How did that… _thing_ even make it through the snow?”

“Okay,” Stevie says slowly, as if she’s about to explain why two plus two equals four to a mathematically challenged first grader. “So, there are these rubber things called tires. And they go on the car. And they allow it to roll. And in the winter, when it’s cold and slippery, they make these extra special tires with better grip and-”

“Ugh!” David exclaims. “Fine. If it makes you feel like a good person, I will climb into that deathtrap and allow you to drive me!” He starts stomping across the parking lot toward the car, trying not to envision the myriad of ways in which his life could come to an untimely end. 

But Stevie just remains where she is, leaning against her shovel. “I don’t know, it kind of sounds to me like you really had your heart set on walking, and who am I to deny your bliss?” 

* * *

In the end, Stevie does end up driving him. It takes several minutes longer than it probably should because they get a little stuck on the railroad tracks, but otherwise, they arrive without incident. 

At which point, David kind of wishes he hadn’t arrived at all, because wow, this is not what he was expecting. 

“Is that a llama!?” he shouts, craning his neck to see out the back window as Stevie pulls to a stop next to a grey Toyota pickup. The truck is covered in mud and may be an even older vintage than Stevie’s wagon. 

“And a pig!” Stevie says. “Oh, look, it’s wearing a coat!” 

Sure enough, a rotund black pig trots out of the open barn, wrapped in a red dog coat. 

“Um, I thought this was supposed to be a horse farm?” David says as he exits the car and looks around. The pig, wagging its curled tail like an overexcited dog, snuffles at David’s legs, leaving dirty snout prints on his cream breeches. “Oh my god! Bad, Pig! Bad! Shoo! Go on! Get!” 

David is about to get back in the car, or possibly climb onto the hood, when the pig abruptly loses interest and lopes off. 

Stevie is very clearly fighting back laughter. Leaning with arms crossed against the roof of the car, she extends one to point at something behind him. “I mean, those look like horses.” 

David turns to examine the field. A painted mule shares a feeder with three shaggy ponies and a miniature donkey. In the adjoining paddock, two dapple grey Percheron mares stand grooming each other. The fences are all composed of greying split cedar rails. They’re rough and rustic and look as though they’ve weathered decades of rain and wind and snow, but they all seem to be in good enough repair. 

Turning further, he inspects the large pasture with the llama. It stands by the metal gate, eyeing him suspiciously. There _are_ actually a dozen riding type horses—of the size, build, and relative athletic ability David anticipated—turned out with it, but there’s also a hirsute Highland cow and a couple of spotted Holsteins. 

Turning back toward the old bank barn, David looks up at the assortment of colourful signage nailed to every available wooden surface. One reads ‘Boarding, Trail Rides, and Pony Rides!’, but there are half a dozen others advertising everything from ‘Family Photography Sessions’ to ‘U Cut Christmas Trees’ and ‘Fresh Baked Apple Blossoms - Weekends Only!’. Apparently there’s an orchard on the property, and a store somewhere that offers cider, coffee, and hot chocolate. 

It’s a tackier, rather haphazard version of the many kitschy little farms that David has watched gain popularity on Instagram over the years. He can see the potential, maybe even admit to the appeal, but as it stands right now, it’s mostly a disaster. 

It’s also, likely, the immediate answer to at least a couple of his problems. 

It’s not the high-polished and manicured, multimillion dollar equestrian estates he’s used to. The driveway is rutted gravel, not blemish-free pavement. He very much doubts the barn is heated or air conditioned, and if there’s a Swarovski chandelier hanging from the ceiling, he’ll call Roland Schitt his uncle. But David knows that appearances can be deceiving. A facade of luxury does not always beget good care, and when he strips away all of his frivolous wants, that’s what’s most important. 

He hopes he’ll find it here. For Valentina’s sake. 

He owes her that much. 

Finishing his perusal, David turns back to Stevie. “Um, thank you, for driving me here,” he says. “I... you should probably leave now before I give into the urge to steal your car and drive far away from the tragedy my life has become.”

Stevie laughs, opening her door. Before she gets in, she tells him, “In this weather? You wouldn’t make it to Elmdale. You’d end up stranded on the side of the road to be taken in by some poor, unsuspecting Amish family.” 

With a shudder, David pats the roof in farewell. 

“Good luck! Don’t fuck it up!” Stevie shouts through the open window as she disappears down the driveway. 

And David really, _really_ hopes that he doesn’t. 

Straightening his toque and checking his appearance in the window of the pickup, he squares his shoulders and says to his reflection, “You can do this,” before striding into the barn. 

The interior is nicer than he anticipated. There are thankfully no chandeliers, and he certainly wouldn’t eat off the floor, but the stalls are big and airy, their walls sturdy pine. The barn smells like horses live there, but despite the fact that only half of the stalls have been mucked, there’s no omnipresent stench of ammonia. The rafters are more or less cobweb free, lines run to automatic waterers in each stall, and when David inspects the bales stacked in a storage stall, he finds three different varieties of hay, all fragrant and mold free. 

Continuing down the aisle, he searches for some sign of life. Surely there must be an office here somewhere. 

He’s about to give up and call out when he comes across an alcove with a door. Inside, David finds Ray bent over a workbench, singing along to Christmas carols as he assembles seasonal greenery. 

Pine and cedar boughs are spread over nearly every available surface, birch wood is stacked in a plastic muck skip with a saw next to a bucket of pinecones, and on the desk, there appears to have been an explosion of glue and glitter and ribbon. 

“Yeah, hi,” David says, tapping Ray on the shoulder. “You said to come by for an interview.” 

Ray turns to greet him. “Good Morning, David!” he shouts over the stereo. “I’m so glad you could make it! Just let me…” He drills a hole in the bottom of a glittering pinecone, squeezes hot glue into it, and then violates the poor object further by forcing a stick into the hole. He stabs it into the completed pot with a flourish, then dusts the glitter from his hands. “Ah! Another done. This has been _such_ a fun project! Now, right, the interview.” 

Ray steps around David and moves to the door. “Patrick!” he calls before returning immediately to his arts and crafts, leaving David to stand there awkwardly, wondering if this is some sort of test. Is this some bizarre interview tactic where he’s thrown into a confusing situation he’s entirely unprepared for and judged by his ability to adapt? 

“Um, I was under the impression that you would be… conducting the interview?” David asks, looking around. His nose is twitching, and he’s fairly certain Ray is incorporating some sort of allergy inducing, artificial Christmas scent into these pieces because he wants to claw out his itching eyeballs, but he’s somehow managed to get glitter on his fingers and that is not something he wants anywhere on this face unless it’s cosmetics grade.

Ray glances up at him and ceases his humming momentarily. “No, that would be Patrick’s job! I have far too many other projects on the go, so I’ve had him take over the managerial duties for me. He shouldn’t be far.” Ray pauses his work again and moves back toward the door. “Let me just… PATRI- Oh, there you are!” Ray gestures at David. “Your interviewee.” 

Patrick looks a little taken aback at just having had his name shouted in his face, but he must be used to Ray’s exuberance because he shrugs it off with a friendly smile and warm brown eyes as he steps into the room to offer David his hand. “Patrick.”

David nods and grasps it. The handshake is firm and quick, just the way David likes them. Patrick’s hand is dry, his palm calloused, and there’s a chance David gets caught up in the flex of his exposed forearms for half a second before spitting out his own name, “David.”

Patrick wears unremarkable blue jeans with a navy plaid flannel open over a grey Henley. His belt is braided leather, his boots something David has only ever worn ironically while line dancing at a bar in Dallas, and his toque, well, it’s folded up to expose his reddened ears as if he got hot but didn’t want to take it off completely. None of it should work for him, yet somehow, it does. 

“David Rose,” Patrick says. “Canadian show jumping champion and Olympic hopeful until his mount, Valentina Z—” He pronounces the Z as ‘zed’ like a good Canadian boy, which makes David’s face twist into something unfortunate, because it’s both adorable and entirely incorrect. “—a 1999 black Hanoverian mare, suffered a career ending injury that forced them both into an early retirement.” He looks a little sheepish, and his cheeks are rosy, but David isn’t sure if that’s a true blush or just the cold. 

The neat and tidy summary of David and Tina’s short but blazing career, is one David has read countless times. He knows it verbatim, he just didn’t think anyone else did. “You know who I am,” David says, surprised. 

Patrick nods, motioning him back out into the barn aisle. He closes the door to the office, muffling both the stereo and Ray’s singing. “I’ve followed Canadian show jumping most of my life. When Ray mentioned a David Rose was coming in for an interview, I refreshed my memory.”

David nods about twelve times in a row as he follows Patrick down the aisle, and yeah, now he’s probably the one blushing. “Okay, while this is flattering, and I haven’t had much of that lately, I’m fairly certain I’m supposed to be the one trying to impress you.”

Stopping, Patrick turns to face him. He leans casually against the wall and crosses those beefy forearms over his chest. “Oh, did you think I was trying to impress you?”

David stumbles to a standstill, stuttering, “You- you weren’t?”

“I just _really_ like sports trivia,” Patrick says earnestly with a perfectly straight face, and David can’t tell if he’s being fucked with or not. 

Normally he’s a decent read when it comes to sarcasm, but Schitt’s Creek seems to be home to a completely different breed of it. David shakes his head. “Okay, um, well, can we just pretend that conversation never happened and get on with the interview?”

A smile spreads across Patrick’s face, and he pulls his toque off to reveal thick brown hair. The cut is simple and short, but there’s just enough length on top for David to see a hint of curl. “Oh, I’m going to hire you, David,” Patrick says, shaking out his hat.

“You are!?” David nearly shouts, excitement and relief getting the better of him. “I mean, of course you are.” He makes to drag his hand through his hair before remembering that it’s covered. He straightens his toque instead. “I’m a paragon of the industry.” 

Patrick’s lips press together against a smile, but David can still see it sparkling in his eyes. “Thing is,” Patrick says, “even if you weren’t, Annabelle’s water broke this morning, and this job is too much for me and Gwen alone, so consider this my ‘congratulations, you’re hired’ speech. The only thing I really need to know before we get started is which days you’d like to work.”

“Mmm,” David says, his head nodding away without his consent again. “I’ve been oscillating on that, and I’m thinking that Monday to Friday would be ideal.”

“One day has to be on the weekend,” Patrick insists. It’s firm but apologetic. He sighs, sounding frustrated. “I told Ray to make sure he mentioned that if he talked to anyone.”

David’s face falls, but then again, what does it matter? It’s not as if Schitt’s Creek is home to a riveting social scene. “Okay, fine,” he concedes. “Sunday to Thursday then. But I _know_ Ray said this was four and a half days a week and flexible. I didn’t dream that up, so what are we talking for start times? Nine-thirty? Ten o'clock?”

Patrick sounds much less apologetic this time. “Yeah, the flexibility was in reference to the days of the week. You’ll have to be here by eight. Your half day can be an afternoon shift if you want, though.”

It’s not as if David really has a say in the matter. He needs this job. Valentina needs him to take this job. “Um, okay, that is acceptable. So,” he says, looking around the barn, “when do I start?”

Pushing away from the wall, Patrick hands him a pitchfork and gestures to the wheelbarrow poking out the stall to David’s left. “Well, there are eight stalls left that aren’t going to muck themselves,” he hints, raising a pale eyebrow. 

Which is how David ends up with stains all over his breeches, his hair sweaty and matted to his forehead, and nine blisters between his two hands. His back aches, his arms feel like limp noodles, and when Patrick hands him a water bottle, apple, and ham sandwich shortly after 1 p.m., he sinks to the floor and inhales them all like a man starved. 

“Are we done?” David asks when he feels like maybe he can stand without his knees buckling. “Is that it?” 

Patrick just laughs at him. 

At the end of the day, Patrick takes pity on him and drives him back to the motel in his truck. It’s only a three minute ride, but the cab is warm, and the sun has set, and David is almost asleep by the end of it. 

After he stumbles out of the truck and closes the door, Patrick tosses a small metal tin to him through the open window. David looks down at it bleary eyed. “Bag Balm? What the fuck is Bag Balm?” He reads the fine print. “For chaffed and cracked udders!?”

“For your blisters,” Patrick explains, his brown eyes bright and whiskey warm. “Trust me.”

And David’s not quite sure why, but he wants to. He thinks maybe it would be okay if he did. Maybe it’s the whole, wholesome country boy image Patrick’s got going on, or maybe it’s just that the horses do, and David has found that they’re rarely wrong when it comes to sussing out people’s true intentions. 

“Thank you,” David says sincerely as he tucks the tin into his pocket, turning toward the motel. 

_Thank you for taking a chance on me_ , is what he doesn’t say aloud. _Thank you for the job, thank you for feeding me and making me laugh and chasing away the damned pig. Thrice. Thank you for the ride home. Oh, and thank you for offering to drive me three and a half hours across rural Ontario on Saturday to pick up my horse._

“Goodnight, David,” Patrick calls from the truck. “See you at eight o'clock!” 

Realising that tomorrow is Thursday, which means he has to do this all over again, David feels his facial expression make the journey away from fond toward annoyed, then whiny, and finally resigned, before he manages to school it into something he hopes passes for pleasantly neutral and turns back toward the pickup. “Goodnight, Patrick.”

* * *

This is going to be hell. 

It absolutely is. 

The only thing that could possibly make this drive worse, would be his parents and Roland Schitt somehow crammed into Patrick’s pickup with them. 

Actually, David’s fairly certain the only reason that isn’t happening is because Patrick’s truck doesn’t _have_ a backseat. It’s just the bench in the front. And there are only three seatbelts. 

Which is still one too many. 

David didn’t invite Alexis to tag along, yet here she is, bouncing along at his side like a hyperactive chihuahua, oohing and aahing over the farm animals as they walk up the driveway toward the barn. “Oh my god, a llama! Look at his furry little face! He looks so mad!”

“Yeah, no,” David says, grabbing hold of her jacket to prevent her from stepping within spitting or biting distance. “You don’t want to pet him. He’s vicious.” David neglects to mention that the llama apparently loves everyone but him. 

“And a porky widdle pig!” Alexis cries, slipping out of his grasp to jog ahead, and oh god, this is why he is never having children. 

David gives up reining her in as a bad job and looks around at the melting snow. Much of the ground peeking through is disgustingly brown and muddy. The sky, however, is a brilliant blue. And the sun is out, so David isn’t worried about them all ending up in a ditch somewhere without cell service and Stevie’s prediction of an Amish adoption coming to fruition. 

By the time David nears the barn, he’s lost sight of Alexis, but he doesn’t give it much thought. She’s like a mosquito; just when he thinks he’s finally rid of her, she’ll be back, buzzing in his ear. 

There’s a two horse trailer hooked up to Patrick’s truck, and he circles it, eyeing the exterior critically. It’s much, much smaller than he’s used to, but it looks in decent enough condition.

Opening the man-door on the side, he ducks into the trailer. The walls and bumper bars are padded, the floor generously bedded with shavings. The divider that allows two horses to be loaded side by side has been removed, leaving one roomier box stall. There’s a full hay net already hung, and an extra one tucked away in a separate cargo area. The cargo hold also secures a large jug of water and an empty bucket. 

It appears Patrick has everything ready to go. 

David wonders if they might manage to slip away while Alexis is distracted. He isn't above ditching her. 

Exiting the trailer, he double checks that everything is latched appropriately and that the hitch is secure. He’ll have to make Patrick check the brake and signal lights before they leave. There are a lot of things in life David fails to take seriously. Trailer safety isn’t one of them. 

Wandering into the barn, David waves at Gwen. The burly older woman works mornings, Saturday through Tuesday. “Have you seen Patrick?” he asks. “Or, like, this annoyingly pretty girl who never shuts up and has zero boundaries where personal… _anything_ is concerned?”

Gwen barks out something that David thinks is supposed to be laughter and jerks her head in the direction of the back of the barn. 

Striding toward the stairs that lead up to Patrick’s apartment, David finds that Alexis has cornered Patrick on the landing. 

He can’t see either of them yet, but he can hear Alexis. “Um, David is outside, I think,” she says. “But I am Alexis, David’s sister, and I’m here with him today for moral support, because, and he probably hasn’t mentioned this because he’s, like, super weird about his exes, but we might be seeing one of them today and, lately, I’ve been working on being more generous…”

Oh my god! David is going to stick a gag in her mouth and muzzle her. A leash is clearly required, too. He runs the last few metres to the stairs. “Alexis!” he hisses, but she doesn’t even flinch. 

Patrick is standing there looking mildly amused and not at all annoyed, and oh my god, is he wearing dungarees? “Well,” he says, and _how_ ? How is he this polite? Also, how is he pulling off denim overalls? David _needs_ to know. “It’s great to meet you Alexis.”

Alexis sticks out her hand, and Patrick shakes it, but then she just keeps shaking and touching and, okay, Patrick definitely looks uncomfortable now. 

Standing at the bottom of the stairs, David stomps his foot impatiently. “Um, hello? Can we get going?” It’s already after nine, and they’re running late, and how is this his life? When did nine o’clock in the morning become late?

Slipping past Alexis to trot down the stairs, Patrick hands David a folded piece of paper.

“What’s this?” David asks instead of opening it to find out for himself. 

“Safety certification for the trailer,” Patrick answers, shrugging on a tragically boxy Carhartt jacket. Over his flannel shirt. And literal overalls. _Oh. My. God._ “Inspection was done a month ago. Figured you’d want to see it before loading up your baby.”

“Aww,” Alexis murmurs. “Isn’t that thoughtful, David?”

And David has to admit that, yes, yes it is. It’s nice. Really nice. Patrick is nice. David isn’t used to being around someone whose default is thoughtful. If he’s not careful, he’s going to tear up. Though that is, at best, 40% genuine gratitude, 60% the thought of showing up to his old life with Patrick dressed like this. 

Would it be rude to ask him to change? 

“Very,” he manages. “Mhmm, _so_ thoughtful, thank you, but come on, people! Places to be! Let’s go! Go, go, go!” His rallying excites the pig, whose name he has since learned is Wilbur, and David dances sideways in the aisle as the pig chases him down like an angry boar. “No! NO! Not you! You are _not_ invited!” 

Five minutes later, Wilbur is corralled in a stall with Gwen, the lights on the trailer have passed muster, and David is squashed in the cab of the truck, fighting Alexis for elbow room as they head east out of Schitt’s Creek. 

Oh, and Patrick is still wearing the dungarees. 

He wants to put Alexis in a headlock and scream ‘ugh!’ and ‘why are you here?’ and ‘oh my god, how are your elbows possibly this pointy through all of these layers!?’, but he refrains, because Patrick is doing him a huge favour. He doesn’t want to turn the next seven or eight hours of the man’s life into a replay of his family’s bus ride into Schitt’s Creek. 

David has a carefully crafted playlist on his phone, but Patrick's truck is, apparently, from an era before Bluetooth and USB. There isn’t even an auxiliary cable, so they're stuck choosing between a sad assortment of CDs in a coverless mini folio that Patrick claims came with the pickup, and radio stations that turn to static and drop off completely every twenty or so kilometers. 

Needless to say, it's a long three and a half hours. David tries to keep the conversation steered toward horses and the happenings in Schitt's Creek, but Alexis keeps veering away from safe topics. David does his best to nudge her away from his past, encouraging her to talk about her own, and as a result, she spends most of the drive chattering about nonsensical things and flirting obtusely with Patrick. 

By the time they arrive, David's head is pounding and Patrick looks like he's seriously regretting his generosity. 

The entrance to the estate is secured by massive wrought iron gates with a gold emblem of a horse jumping an oxer. There’s a box with an entry keypad, and David points to it as Patrick pulls up to the gates. “Mmm, yep, keypad over there, just enter seven-two-zero-nine.” 

Patrick rolls down his window and leans out to punch in the code. David turns his attention forward to watch the grand gates swing open, but the box just emits a startlingly loud error noise. 

“Uh,” Patrick says, “it’s flashing red.” He looks at the motionless gate and then at David. “Are you sure that’s the right code?”

“Um, are _you_ sure you entered it correctly?” David snaps cattily. 

“Seven. Two. Zero. Nine,” Patrick says as he keys it in again. It blares angrily a second time.

David unbuckles his seatbelt and leans over Alexis for a better look and, sure enough, the electronic display is flashing red. 

“Still flashing,” Patrick observes unhelpfully. 

“Is it going to explode?” Alexis also undoes her seatbelt, draping herself over Patrick’s lap to look, her hand grabbing at his left thigh under the guise of losing her balance. 

Patrick presses himself back against the seat with a grimace. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s likely-”

“Oh my god!” David exclaims “Just… try it once more!” He pulls Alexis off of Patrick. 

“Are you sure I shouldn’t just…? There’s a call button here. Wouldn’t it be-” Patrick says as the speaker crackles to life. 

“Good afternoon, welcome to Stonecrest Equestrian, please state your purpose for visiting,” the voice says. It belongs to a woman. A snooty, British woman. 

David knows it at once. 

He kneels on the bench seat and gracelessly throws himself across both Alexis and Patrick to hang his head out the window. Alexis grunts, “Ugh, David!”, pounding her fists against his spine. 

Ignoring the abuse, David balances himself on the windowsill instead of Patrick’s sturdy thigh. It’s not that he doesn’t want to cop a feel, it’s just that he’s big on consent and there are more important matters to be dealt with at the moment. Also, the dungarees. 

“Yes, hi, Evelyn, it’s David.”

“David…?” 

Valentina has been boarded at Stonecrest for years. Evelyn knows damn well who he is. _The bitch_. David grits his teeth at her audacity. Now that he has none, he’s beginning to suspect that people only ever really respected his money. “David Rose. We spoke a few days ago. And again last night. I’m here to collect Valentina.”

“Oh, of course! _David,_ ” Evelyn says, her voice dripping with insincerity. “Do come see me at the office first. We should catch up.”

The machine emits a slightly less disgruntled buzz, and then the gates swing open smoothly. 

Settling himself back in his seat, David pulls down the visor to check his hair. He may be headed up the driveway of a prestigious equestrian estate in a truck and trailer combo more suited to an agrarian 4-H show, but he himself can at least look like he fits in. 

“Wow,” Patrick says no less than four times in the minute and a half it takes to reach the main barn. “This is…”

Exquisite. A tad ostentatious. A level of luxury he will likely never again be able to afford in his life. David knows. 

Patrick swings the truck around the circular driveway so that the ramp of the trailer is facing the barn. It’s a feature of the farm David has always loved. There’s none of the potential embarrassment that comes with trying and failing to back a trailer in straight. No flattened landscaping… No broken statues or fountains… 

David is out of the pickup before Patrick even has it in park, and the part of him that is a horrible, horrible person, wants to insist that Patrick stay in the truck because he’s going to stick out like a sore thumb here.

Deciding to be magnanimous but still compromise with his worst self, David walks around to the driver’s side. He waits for Patrick to hop down and close the door, then David crowds him up against the side of the truck a little. “Do you mind if I... just-” Biting his lip, he grasps the bottom edges of Patrick’s coat, aligns the zipper, and then draws it up to hide the overalls from the world. “There, that’s…” Still incorrect, but marginally less so? No, he probably shouldn’t say that. “I, um, didn’t want you to get cold?”

“Oh, okay. Sure, David. Thank you,” Patrick says, looking him right in the eye, sarcastic as fuck, and okay, all right, David really needs to stop touching him now. With a pat on the chest, he picks a nonexistent piece of hay from the coat and pretends to toss it away before finally backing up. 

“Let’s, um...” He jerks his head toward the grandiose double doors decked with massive Christmas wreaths, then spins in a circle because, oh god, Alexis has probably already run off and, oh-

No, she’s actually just standing there, wearing that tiny little pout that most people reserve for baby animals, or, well, actual babies. It’s her ‘aww, that is _so_ cute’ face, and David suspects it will soon be succeeded by her ‘you _like_ him’ face. Which is not nearly as endearing. 

Especially when she’s right. 

And shit. She’s gonna be right. 

So, to postpone that eventuality, David jumps out of the frying pan—

—and straight into the fire. 

“David,” Evelyn says after five torturous minutes of rehashing of his family’s fall from grace. “I'm afraid before we can release Valentina, you'll have to pay your outstanding board. Legally we have the right to retain the horse until all debts are settled.”

They never actually made it into the office, so they’re all just standing there in the cavernous, chandelier lit aisle where everyone can witness his humiliation. 

“What!?” David screeches. There’s no calling it anything else. A demand for an explanation, perhaps, but as far as pitch and volume go, it’s unarguably a screech. His chest tightens and he feels like he might be sick or faint or, oh god, is he having a heart attack?

“I'm so sorry,” Evelyn says. She isn’t. Not one bit. 

David’s mouth won’t form words, and his lungs are refusing to process oxygen even though he’s sucking it in by great, heaving lungfuls. 

But then Patrick steps in. Nice Patrick. Helpful Patrick. Appallingly dressed Patrick. “Hi,” he says, calm and reasonable. “Could you show me David’s payment records?”

Evelyn looks at Patrick like he’s shit on her shoe. “Who are you?”

Patrick takes another step forward, smiling amicably, and extends his hand. “Patrick Brewer, David’s accountant,” he lies through his teeth. 

Evelyn doesn’t shake Patrick’s hand, but she does look him up and down before sighing. “If you insist.” She turns toward the office. “Follow me.”

So Patrick disappears into the room with her, and David just stands there on the verge of a panic attack, Alexis petting his shoulder in a way that is more irritating than soothing. But that irritation seems to be the only thing holding him together, so he accepts it, matching his breathing to her strokes until Patrick reemerges with a grin. 

It’s a happy grin. A grin that makes the lines around his eyes crinkle. A grin that loosens the knot in David’s chest. 

“Good news, David,” Patrick says, clapping him on the shoulder that Alexis isn’t petting. “Turns out you paid for the year in full back in January, and your contract stipulates that any unused portion be refunded should the horse pass away or you decide to relocate, so actually, they owe _you_ money.” He squeezes David’s shoulder before turning back to Evelyn with a smug smile. 

It’s the first time David has seen Patrick set aside the earnestness and look truly cocky. He likes it. He likes it a lot. 

“I believe the figure was $1,356,” Patrick says, looking expectantly at Evelyn who reluctantly hands David a cheque. 

David could kiss him.

He’s also so relieved he could cry. 

He refuses to cry. 

Not here. Not now. Maybe later. In the shower. Or after he’s popped a pill and crawled into bed.

Tilting his head back, he gives himself three seconds to furiously blink away tears, then he takes a deep breath and says, “Evelyn, show us to Valentina. I would really like for us to be out of each other’s lives forever.”

Evelyn strides away huffily, and Patrick follows. 

David tries to as well, but Alexis's shoulder strokes are now concentrated at his forearm where she's slapping away with increasing force. 

“Ow, ow, ow! Abuse! Why are you hitting me?”

“ _David_!” 

And yep, there it is, there’s the ‘you _like_ him’ face. 

“What!?” he hisses. 

Alexis grins and slaps his arm once more. “He's a button!”

* * *

Alexis is already in the cab, playing on her phone and avoiding manual labour like it’s the plague. In the past, David never would have had to lift a finger to have his things transported from the tack room to truck, but Evelyn seems to have cleared out all of the staff, so here David is, shuffling along with one end of his tack trunk, praying that it doesn’t slip from his grasp and land on his toes. 

Patrick seems to be having a much easier time of it, so when he climbs into the bed of the pickup to rearrange and tie everything down, David leaves him to it and heads back into the barn to collect Valentina from her stall. 

She loads eagerly onto the trailer as if she senses David’s desire to be far from here, snuffling around near his pockets for the mints she knows she’ll receive once she’s secured in place. 

After crunching her peppermints, Valentina dives straight into the hay, and David takes a moment to wrap his arms around her neck and press his face to her silky fur, closing his eyes. 

What was supposed to be a short moment drags out into a few minutes, and David doesn’t lift his head until Patrick clears his throat from the bottom of the ramp with his arms full of leg wraps. 

Composing himself, David steps toward the ramp and extends his hands to take half of the load from Patrick’s arms. Returning to Valentina’s left shoulder, he crouches to begin wrapping her front leg. Patrick moves to mirror his position on the mare’s other side. 

“So,” David asks as he unrolls the bandage in uniform lines. “Are you?”

Patrick glances at him around Tina’s chest. “Am I what?”

“Actually an accountant.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, finishing his wrap seconds ahead of David. It’s neat and tidy and looks as if he’s done it a thousand times before. “I’ve got an MBA, yeah.”

Smoothing the velcro into place, David inspects the two front wraps to make sure they’re of similar tensions before he stands and moves toward Valentina’s hind end. “And you work in a barn,” he states, looking at Patrick over Tina’s rump.

Patrick shrugs his shoulders. “Along with managing Ray’s multitude of business ventures, yes. Why?” He looks mildly offended, a little tired, as if he’s been asked this question before. “Should I be wearing a suit and spending my days cooped up in some glass highrise overlooking downtown Toronto?” He shakes his head and crouches. “Not really my style.”

And David really hadn’t meant for that to come across as judgemental. He knows the weight of other people’s expectations and the feeling that comes with not having met them. “No, it really is not,” he agrees. “I didn’t, um, mean for that to sound… condescending? I was just curious as to whether you have other… aspirations?”

“It’s fine, David.” And the way Patrick says it makes it sound like it really is fine. Like ‘fine’ is just that and not a passive aggressive way of saying ‘fuck you’. “I mean, ideally, I would like to manage a business of my own someday, but I’ve only been in Schitt’s Creek a few months, so I’m mostly just trying to get my feet under me, figure out what exactly it is that I do want.”

David wants to ask if those undecided wants are just in regards to career, or if there’s more that Patrick is trying to figure out. But that could get heavy and they’ve only known each other for a few days, so instead he says, “Wait. So, you weren’t born in Schitt’s Creek, or, like, forced to move there because your dad’s business manager stole all your money and left you destitute with no other option? You made an actual choice. You saw the sign and toured the town and sat down for a meal at Café Tropical and thought ‘oh gee, this is nice, I think I want to shackle myself to this place’?”

Patrick laughs, and David admires him through Valentina’s legs until the mare shifts her weight and stomps her foot as if reminding David of his task. 

“Yeah, I guess I did,” Patrick admits. Finished wrapping, he stands and straightens Valentina’s blanket. “Though I think it was more the people that drew me in than the amenities. I was, uh, I guess you could say I was running away from my old life? I didn’t exactly have a destination in mind. I just stopped in Schitt’s Creek for gas and a meal, and then I ended up talking to Ray, and one thing led to another, and an hour later, I had a job offer that came with a place to stay.”

David rises and rests his elbows on Tina’s blanketed rump. 

Patrick fidgets under his gaze for a moment, picking shavings off the striped blanket, then he looks up and meets David’s eyes unflinchingly. “I think, maybe… maybe it was meant to be.”

The statement is loaded, and David knows what he wants it to mean, but historically, what he wants has so very rarely lined up with the reality of what the other person was thinking. “I- um…” 

“ _David_.” 

The warm, hopeful feeling in David’s chest leeches away in an instant, leaving him cold and shaky. 

He turns toward the interruption with a grimace. “Sebastian.” 

“Wow,” Sebastian says, looking around at the small trailer. “This is… exactly what I pictured when Evelyn told me you were coming to get Valentine.”

“Ah…” David says, rubbing his hands together, fidgety and unsettled and this is not supposed to be happening. “You’re- you’re here. I, um, thought you were supposed to be in California.” 

Sebastian doesn’t offer an explanation as to why he’s here and not 2500 miles away, he just steps up the ramp and says, “So good to see you. Look at you… you look really… healthy,” and then he makes kissing noises as he presses his cheek against each of David’s. 

David wants the earth to swallow him whole.

Appearing next to David, Patrick clears his throat. “Hi,” he says without offering his hand, which David is pretty sure is a major slight, because Patrick shakes everyone's hand. “Patrick.”

Sebastian takes a step back and sizes Patrick up. “And you are? I didn’t think David could still afford a groom.”

“Oh, I’m not David’s groom,” Patrick answers easily. “I’m his boyfriend.” His arm snakes around David's waist to squeeze reassuringly at his hip, and oh, that’s nice. 

The look on Sebastian's face is one David has longed to put there ever since they broke up, so he leans into the one-armed hug and turns his head to press a kiss to Patrick’s toque-covered temple. If it means setting Sebastian even slightly off balance, David will gladly embrace the fiction that he has an accountant _and_ a boyfriend, that his life may have gone to hell, but he’s risen above it and is happy. “We should get going, honey. I’d like to make it home before dark.”

David doesn’t really want to go back to the reality of being depressingly single and much too poor to require financial management, but he also feels no need to torture himself by spending a minute longer in Sebastian’s presence. Though the press of Patrick's strong arm against his back just might be worth it. 

Confirming that Valentina is settled, David presses his hand to Patrick’s spine and guides him out of the trailer. Patrick regards him with a warm, private smile, squeezes his shoulder, then disappears around the side of the trailer without so much as a glance at Sebastian.

Sebastian is still just standing there on the ramp, looking like someone kicked his puppy, and David has to wave him off. “Yeah, if you could, off the ramp, there we go, great.” He lifts and latches the ramp into place, then closes the upper doors. “So, it was really good to see you, Sebastian,” David says. “And, yeah, good luck with the rest of your life, I guess.” 

David doesn’t wait to see if Sebastian will respond, he just walks around the truck to climb into the passenger side. 

Of course, upon doing so, he looks up to see that Sebastian’s Range Rover is blocking their escape. “Damnit!” he growls. He’s going to have to ask Sebastian to move it, the son of a bitch.

At his outburst, Alexis looks up from her phone and takes everything in. “David,” she says after a moment. “I’ll do it-” She undoes her seatbelt and makes as if she’s going to climb over him, but Patrick’s words stop her.

“David, Alexis, it’s fine. Just buckle up. I’ve got this.” 

But instead of getting out of the truck like David expects, or ramming into the $240,000 vehicle like David wants, Patrick just slides the gear shift into reverse and backs the truck and trailer smoothly around the circle. He executes a flawless turn, guiding the trailer into an empty parking space, then presses the truck into drive with a grin.

Alexis doesn’t say anything, but she does elbow David in the side, widening her eyes and making an obnoxious little ‘okay’ hand signal at him. 

David swats it away before Patrick can see, and when his phone chimes a minute later, it’s a text from Alexis. 

* * *

After Valentina is tucked safely into her stall, David and Alexis walk back to the motel. Patrick did offer to drive them, but it’s a nice evening for this late in November, and David isn’t sure the universe will allow him to accept any more of Patrick’s generosity today without contesting his worthiness.

Alexis starts out by his side, but she soon skips ahead, turning to walk backwards so she can make eye contact.

“He likes you,” she insists, brimming with certainty.

David scoffs. “Yeah, I very much doubt that. He’s a small-town farm boy with a business major who wears straight-legged, mid-range denim and literal fucking dungarees. You’ve seen the flannel. He is not interested in me.”

Alexis veers a little too close to the ditch, and David is tempted to let her fall in so he can laugh at her, but apparently he’s a slightly better person than he used to be, because he grabs her wrist long enough to yank her back on course. 

“David,” she says seriously. “He took eight hours out of his day to drive you across the province and didn’t even ask for gas money. He put Evelyn in her place. He called himself your boyfriend in front of Sebastian.”

David glares at her, trying to figure out how she heard that.

“I had the window down, okay? I was hot.”

“Mmm, okay.” It may be a nice day as far as November is concerned, but it is by no means warm.

“Fine, so I was eavesdropping. And frankly—” She points at him, and if David were a foot closer, he knows he’d receive a boop on the nose. “—the two of you, are adorable.”

“He’s nice,” David says with a sigh. “Really nice. But that’s all. He saw I was having a hard time and did those things to be nice.” David wants to believe it was more, but he’s made that mistake far too many times in his life. “I know we don’t have much experience with genuinely nice people, but I’m pretty sure kindness does not magically equate to being down to fuck, and people who think that are generally incels, so…”

Alexis’s face scrunches with disgust. “Ew, David. Don’t remind me!” 

She’s edging close to the ditch again, and David tells himself he’s going to let her fall this time. 

“It’s just…” Alexis continues, somehow remaining on the road. “Did you see how he cringed and literally tried to disappear into the seat when I leaned across his lap? He did everything he possibly could not to touch me. Which, in my experience, means he’s either newly married or he’s gay. And since he lives alone in the apartment above the barn… if you’re, like, getting a vibe…”

Alexis winks at him five times in a row. It’s horrific and the complete and total opposite of subtle.

“Um, what was that?” David asks, pointing and waving his hand about in the general vicinity of her face. “What is going on here? Are you having a stroke?”

“Oh my god, David!

* * *

Tuesday’s are David’s half day. And yes, he realises that this is his first one, but he’s decided that it’s a nice little breather in the middle of his unconventional work week. He slept in and lingered over breakfast and would have partaken in a leisurely shower, but he’s come to accept that showering before working in a barn is the definition of pointless. 

Making his way up the farm’s driveway, David can’t help but smile. It snowed overnight and now, in the late morning sun, the world is glistening. The air is sharp and cold and perfectly still, the sky a brilliant, cerulean blue. The snow is light and powdery beneath his feet, picturesque where it blankets the trees. It’s the perfect winter day. 

Stepping off of the driveway and into the deeper snow, David comes to a stop at the fence, arms resting on the top rail. Tugging off one glove, he reaches into his pocket for the extra apple he grabbed from the cafe this morning and calls for Valentina, “Tina, honey!” 

The black mare’s head lifts from the main feeder, which she has all to herself. She’s turned out with a bay gelding and palomino filly who stand together eating from a smaller feeder, regarding her warily. This is the second combination of horses they’ve tried to pair her with, but so far, Valentina has resisted making friends, preferring to simply boss the others around.

Patrick wants to throw her out with the big herd where she’ll have a harder time being a bully, but David absolutely refuses to have her near anything with horns. 

Tina trots over to the fence, stunning in her ivory trimmed, charcoal blanket. “Hello, gorgeous,” David says, patting her on the neck while she daintily bites the apple in half. After she finishes chewing, he places a kiss on her soft muzzle and scratches the heart-shaped mark between her eyes. “All right, go be a bitch.”

Taking his words to heart, Valentine thunders back across the snowy field with her ears pinned to chase her paddock mates away from their hay. 

David think’s she’s settling in nicely. 

Checking his phone, he continues up the driveway. There’s a school bus parked with the trailers that he doesn’t give much consideration—because yesterday it was an RV Ray was selling, and the day before that, a backhoe—but when he opens the door to walk into the barn just before noon, he’s immediately assaulted by the sights and sounds of, oh god, two dozen kids running amuck in the aisle.

Three of them have Wilbur dressed up in a Santa hat and beard, seated in a toboggan. The pig appears to be revelling in it. A dozen others are chasing goats, trying to hold them still long enough to strap antlers to their heads. David assumes they’re to be reindeer because Jack, the miniature ass of a donkey, is sporting Rudolph’s red nose. 

And, for some inexplicable reason, the chickens are out of their pen. One flaps out of the reach of stomping hooves and grabbing hands and almost collides with David’s face. 

“What the fu-” 

“Happy December, David!” Ray shouts cheerfully over the raucous. 

David doesn’t know where the man appeared from, just that he is not mentally equipped to work in this sort of environment. He may have to take a sick day. 

A woman David assumes to be the teacher is shouting and looks as if she’s torn out half her hair. There’s hay all over what was probably a freshly swept floor, and he can see that four of the eighteen tines on his favourite pitchfork have snapped off. Some hellion is riding a broom around like a pogo stick, bending the bristles out of place, and yeah, he is so not going to be the one to untangle that hose. 

Turning toward Ray, David does his best to ignore the nightmare occurring in his periphery. “Um, are we resorting to child labour now? Or is the school suddenly an unfit locale for, you know, school?” 

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” Ray says, catching a wayward chicken as it flutters into his chest. “At least not this week. They’re supposed to be closing down the school over the holidays for asbestos removal, but that’s only if the town raises enough money. This is a field trip, but instead of focusing on seasonal arrangements and livestock deworming as we’d originally planned, we’re working on putting together a skit for the Santa Claus Parade slash Talent Show slash Asbestos Fest Fundraiser!”

“The, um, what?” David asks because he heard the words, but he’s having trouble forming a clear picture of what, exactly, they mean. 

“Well, you see, usually Schitt’s Creek just has a single float in the Elmdale Santa Claus Parade, and the school does a holiday talent show, but this year the town council has decided we should incorporate both into an event to raise funds for asbestos removal, and we’ve yet to settle on a name that truly embodies the spirit of it all, hence the…”

“Right, right,” David says, nodding as if this means something to him. He looks around for an excuse to escape. “Well, it, um, seems like you have everything under control here, so…” He waves his hands and backs toward the doors. “I’m just going to… go, and find Patrick, and see if he needs my help.”

“Bye, David!”

Having made his escape, David closes the door firmly behind him and leans back against it, head tilted back, fists clenched. “Wow,” he whispers to the sky. 

“Hi, David,” Patrick says, also appearing out of nowhere, and David is beginning to think the people in this town are either really sneaky or have some sort of secret teleportation abilities. 

“Please don’t make me go back in there,” David pleads as he straightens. 

“That bad, huh?” Patrick asks with a grin. He’s got a saw in one hand, a bolt of burlap in the other, and a coil of rope over his shoulder. 

“Worse.” David groans. “Have you heard about this Christmas talent parade asbestos… thing?”

“I have, and actually, I was hoping to discuss some ideas with you. Right now the whole thing is a disorganised disaster, and Ray is really bad at committing to a vision.” Patrick sets his load down. “Think you and Tina might be up for a ride? It’s December first, so Ray wants a tree up in the barn. I was about to saddle Dolly up and head out back to cut one down.”

Dolly is one of the Percherons used to pull the wagons. David figures hauling back a tree in this snow will be easy for her. He hasn’t had a chance, or frankly, the energy to ride since moving Valentina here, and he’s been itching for the chance to get back in the saddle. 

“That would be lovely,” he agrees, nodding aggressively. “And, um, these ideas of yours, they don’t happen to involve screaming children and chickens flying at my head, do they? Because I’m really not great with small humans or, like, pretty much anything with wings.” 

Patrick chuckles and presses on David’s shoulder to turn him back toward the barn doors. “Grab your tack, David. We can get ready outside.”

* * *

The wind stings David’s face and the sun warms his back as he rides Valentina at a leisurely canter across the snowy field. Dolly and Patrick thunder along steadily beside them, and David is pretty sure he’s grinning so wide he must look completely deranged. 

They slow to a walk as they reach the trees, and David drops his reins and throws himself down against Tina’s neck so he can wrap his arms around it. She feels fabulous. Sound and spry and full of energy. His eyes are wetter than can be solely attributed to the cold wind, so he wipes his face with his sleeve before sitting upright. 

Ray’s property is far larger than he initially thought. The apple orchard is visible from the barn, and he knew there were hayfields, but they also ride through stretches of sugar maple forest, passing a pumpkin patch and old corn stalks on their way to the Christmas trees. 

When they arrive, David halts Valentina and just stares, absolutely in awe. 

Rows and rows of fir trees line the earth, blanketed in snow. Douglas and Balsam and Fraser, David squeezes Tina forward to weave through them. Some are barely knee-high, while others tower over their heads, boxing them in. 

When they come across some of a more appropriate height, Patrick halts and dismounts from the bulky old western saddle on Dolly’s back. In comparison, David’s saddle is English style, sleek and soft and custom made. He should probably consider selling it and replacing it with something much less expensive. 

He wonders briefly if he should dismount and offer to help, but Patrick, in his quilted flannel jacket, is clearly much more suited to the task. Plus, Dolly ground ties, so he doesn’t even need to hold her. 

“So,” David says, watching as Patrick removes the saw from the sleeve secured to the saddle. “Ideas. You have them?”

Stomping around in the snow, Patrick sizes up several trees. He laughs. “Yes, David, every once in a very rare while.”

“That one,” David insists, pointing at a perfectly symmetrical, six-foot Balsam. “And these ideas, do they intersect to form a cohesive vision, or are they more, like, a clusterfuck of inadvisable options?” 

“The former?” Patrick doesn’t sound certain. He does sound amused, though. “I hope.” He circles the tree and nods. “All right, hop off. I need you to hold this while I cut.”

“Excuse me?” David really doesn’t want to get sap all over his riding gloves. Or have to find a place to remount. He doubts he's flexible enough to manage from the ground these days. Plus, he doesn’t want to put that strain on Valentina’s back; he’s not as svelte as he used to be either.

“Get off the horse, David.” Patrick pulls off his hideous yellow deerskin gloves—David swears they sell them discounted somewhere in town because everyone has a pair—and holds them out. “Here, you can wear mine.”

David just looks at him, a little concerned that Patrick possesses telepathic abilities to go along his magical tendency to appear. 

“I’ll give you a leg back up after,” Patrick adds, lending credence to David’s mind reading theory, and while he realises it’s supposed to be a reassurance, not a bribe, the thought of Patrick’s hands on his knee and ankle is incentive enough to get him off the horse. Which… god, he’s pathetic. 

Carefully sliding to the ground, David walks Valentina over to stand next to Dolly. Valentina pins her ears and bares her teeth as if she’s about to bite the big grey mare, but Dolly just pins her ears and gnashes her teeth right back, refusing to be cowed. 

Patrick shakes out the burlap and spreads it on the ground next to the tree, but he’s looking at the two mares. “We should try them together for turnout.”

Looking Valentina in the eye, David points at her. “ _Stay_. Or I will put you out with Dolly and Bertha, and then you won’t have anyone to boss around.”

Sliding off his fancy leather gloves, David pockets them and then dons Patrick’s. They’re still warm with Patrick’s body heat and surprisingly comfortable. David can almost see the appeal. Maybe. If he was blind. “Okay, let’s do it,” he says. “How do you want me?”

Patrick’s pale eyebrows threaten to disappear under the brim of his helmet. 

“Where!” David clarifies. “Where should I grab it? The tip or the base?” 

Patrick tilts his head and presses his lips together and gives David a _look_.

“And that’s something- that’s what I just said to you, so…” David needs to just… not talk. Ever again.

Placing his hands against the tree in what his understanding of basic physics suggests is a suitable position, David fights the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and watches Patrick crouch to begin sawing. 

“Okay, so,” Patrick says, “right now this whole event is… how did you put it? A clusterfuck of inadvisable options?” There’s humour in his voice, and he’s very obviously making fun of David, but it’s in a way that makes David feel all warm inside.

“Ray has been relaying the contents of their meetings to me and they haven’t narrowed down what they want to do, or even where they want to do it,” Patrick says as he shifts further around the tree to saw at the trunk from a different angle. “I’m honestly a little afraid it’s going to turn into a bunch of kids trying to put on a skit on a float while it drives down main street, and how would anyone actually follow the plot? Is the entire town expected to march along with the float?” 

“Oh, god,” David exclaims at the mental image. “Setting aside that horrific visual, I thought this was supposed to be a fundraiser? Are people going to, like, pay to chase a float around town?”

Patrick snorts. “Exactly. Which is why I’m thinking we should do it here.”

“Chase a float around?”

“No, David. There will be no chasing of Christmas parade floats if I have anything to say about it,” Patrick insists and David feels the tree start to wobble. “I was thinking more of a Christmas fair. There’s plenty of room for parking here and we could charge admission at the gate. Okay, hold her steady. Almost through!” 

The weight of the tree sways heavily David’s way and, _oh no_ , he is _not_ prepared, it’s going to land on him, but then Patrick is standing and guiding the bulk of it gently down to the burlap covered snow as if he’s done this dozens of times before. Which, realistically, he probably has. 

“We’re already set up to sell hot drinks with the coffee shack. It wouldn’t be hard to add some variety to that, maybe organise a bake sale,” Patrick continues, his eyes bright with excitement, and this must be some contagious, Christmas spirit, Hallmark movie bullshit, because David finds himself nodding along, more enthusiastic than he should be. About a godforsaken Schitt’s Creek Christmas Talent Asbestos Fundraising Fair… _Thing_. 

Checking to make sure that Valentina and Dolly haven’t escaped or maimed each other, David strokes the grey mare’s thick neck. “Do we have a sleigh? Dolly could offer sleigh rides around the property.”

Patrick’s bare hands are on his hips, and he’s beaming. “We could make it an opportunity for people to get their Christmas trees. Ray said that’s always just been a casual thing where a dozen or so families show up over the course of December, but if we put a little effort into advertising, spread the word, we could sell dozens more. Maybe even have some pre-cut and wrapped by the barn.”

Valentina butts her nose into David’s back, demanding attention, so he stands there scratching both mares for a moment before he realises that he’s still wearing Patrick’s gloves. “Oh, here,” he says, handing them back. “So… I assume that, um, we can’t just skip the cringey affair of hosting a talent show?”

Patrick shakes his head, completely unsympathetic. “Nope. Roland made it pretty clear that has to happen.”

David purses his lips. “Okay, well, um, if we absolutely _must,_ I guess we could hold that in the indoor arena?” The space isn’t huge, or heated, but it’s covered and the lights can be turned on and off in sections to dim the audience. “Do- does the school have chairs we can borrow?”

“I can ask,” Patrick says, “but I don’t see why not. Oh! We should do a skating rink in the hayfield! It’s level enough to set one up. And Ray expressed an interest in being the photographer for Santa photos, so we’d just need to find a Santa.” 

David really hopes it doesn’t end up being Roland. He shudders. It’s most likely going to end up being Roland. 

“So, what do you think? Is this a cohesive enough vision for you?” Patrick asks, somehow equal parts sincere and sarcastic, and god, he’s such a troll. David wants to kiss him. Up against a tree. Maybe down in the snow.

Clearing his throat, David looks around as if the Christmas trees will somehow proffer an acceptable answer. “I think,” he says, and he’s being generous here, “that it, um, has potential?”

Patrick huffs out a breath of laughter and squats to start wrapping up the tree. “Kind words, David, thank you. Now hand me that rope.”

* * *

David locks the motel room door and turns to find Stevie loitering outside. He doesn’t think he visibly startles, but his heart does pound away a little faster than necessary. “Oh my god! What is it with people in this town popping up out of nowhere?” He zips his keys into his pocket and crosses his arms, awaiting an explanation. 

Stevie doesn’t offer him one. She just leans against the linen cart and smiles, absent the shovel and trapper hat today. “So, you’ve been spending a lot of time at the barn the last few weeks.”

If almost anyone else said the words, they’d be nothing more than an observation, but coming from Stevie, it’s an accusation. 

“Yes, well, I do work there,” David says in his defence. Not that he needs one. He’s a grown… adult. 

“Oh? Seven days a week now?”

“I also have a horse.”

“Mmm.” She nods seriously. “So it has nothing at all to do with a certain dungaree and flannel wearing business major?”

David squints at her. “Have you been talking to Alexis?”

“David and Patrick, sitting in a tree,” Stevie singsongs obnoxiously. 

And no. _No_. Absolutely not. David will not stand here and take this abuse. “Okay,” he says. “No. I am feeling very attacked right now, so I am going to walk away from you and go to work. Because I have to work. Not because Patrick is there.” 

Turning, David stomps away to the sound of Stevie cackling and shouting, “Kay-Eye-Ess-Ess-Eye-En-Gee!”

* * *

David looks at the flyer. Then he blinks and rubs at his eyes and looks again. And yes, that, _that_ is what it says. 

_Asbestos Festivus._

He sets the flyer back down on Ray’s desk in dismay, then immediately picks it back up and waves it in Patrick’s face to get his attention. “Um, so, this… _this_ is final? _Asbestos Festivus_ is what we're calling this thing?”

Patrick looks up from his laptop and shrugs good-naturedly. There's an amused smile pinched behind his lips. “I'll admit, it's not… ideal? Okay, it's basically a tongue twister if you say it five times fast, but it was decided something inclusive was best, and since, well, _Asbestos Festivus_ is this Saturday, and no one could come up with anything better, they went ahead and…” He gestures at the stack of flyers on Ray’s desk. 

“It’s…” David sighs and sinks down into the chair opposite Patrick with the flyer on his lap. “I guess… _memorable_ would be the kindest descriptor I have at my disposal.”

Patrick grunts and it sounds like a laugh, but it’s clear his attention is mostly focused on the spreadsheet on the laptop in front of him. 

The entire menagerie has been fed and turned out for the day, and David should be starting on stalls, but instead he’s in here, procrastinating. Possibly lingering in Patrick’s orbit. 

Looking down at his lap, David continues scanning the flyer. He shakes his head at the alarming overuse of exclamation marks and supposes that he should simply be glad the flyer isn’t covered in an assortment of unfortunate clipart. Flipping the offending piece of paper over, he looks at the back. 

“Um… why is your name on here?” David asks, glaring at Patrick until he looks up from his columns and rows and numbers. “Better yet, _why_ is my mother's name on here!? And why is she singing ‘Danny Boy’? It’s not even a Christmas song!” 

Supposing he should simply be glad that she isn’t coercing him into performing ‘The Number’, David moves on with airing his various grievances, “And who is Bob? And what the fuck is beat poetry!?!” His voice keeps increasing in pitch and volume and he’s about a second away from screeching, so he takes a deep breath before he continues. “I was under the impression that talent shows were something that, um, only children performed at?”

“Traditionally, that would be the case, yes," Patrick agrees, nodding supportively. 

David does not feel supported.

“But word got out that The Jazzagals would be doing a closing performance and suddenly other people started coming out of the woodwork, asking if they could contribute a little something, and Ray didn't think it would be fair to say no, so…” 

David knows once the people of this town have made up their minds about something, it's virtually impossible to change them. More than he would like, he’s found himself just going along with the sweeping current that is Schitt's Creek because fighting it is, ultimately, more trouble than it's worth. 

That does not, however, mean he will go quietly.

“Okay, but that doesn't explain why your name is on here,” David stresses, tapping the flyer. “You're practically organising the entire thing. Do you _really_ have to contribute more?”

Patrick's left shoulder lifts into a little shrug, David wants to place his hand there, feel the muscles gather. “I want to,” Patrick says simply. “I've got my guitar upstairs, and I miss playing.”

David tugs at the collar of his sweater. This whole discussion is making him feel hot and itchy and honestly, a little ill. “And will there be, um... singing? To go along with the strumming?”

Patrick nods and closes his laptop, saddling David with the full weight of his undivided attention. “I’ve only got the ten minute time slot, so I was thinking about opening with an original song.”

“An original song?” David parrots idiotically. 

“But then I thought, it’s probably best just to stick with the classics.”

David nods, only slightly relieved. Why isn’t he more relieved? Oh, right. Because he doesn’t know if Patrick has any musical talent whatsoever, and secondhand embarrassment is, somehow, just as cringey as firsthand. “So, um… classics.”

Patrick drums his fingers on the desk. “Yeah, so I was thinking about doing _‘Christmas Is All Around’_. You know, from Love Actually.”

David does, and it’s not, he supposes, strictly speaking, the worst song choice going, even if the movie itself is severely problematic. 

Patrick nods as if finalising that decision, and then he sits up a little straighter. “So now, the only question is, do I wear Billy Mack’s first outfit from the recording session?” he asks, wearing his ‘ _I’m only saying this because I know it bothers you and I enjoy mocking you_ ’ face. “Or do I recreate that white, paint-splattered, snakeskin number from the Christmas party?”

Huffing, David stands. “Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t actually have anything to follow it up with that isn’t likely to get him fired, so he just looks around and then down at the despicable flyer in his hands and forces himself not to crumple it into a ball. 

“David?”

“Mmm?” he answers instead of stalking out of the office as he should. There is a chance he may have some slight masochistic tendencies. 

“Could you take those flyers and distribute them around town?” Patrick asks benevolently, with a winning smile. “I'll text you the list of locations.”

David balks. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure that is not part of my job description.”

Patrick raises one of those pale eyebrows. “Would you rather muck stalls? Or perhaps you’d like to get started building the stage?”

David picks up the pile and hugs it to his chest. “I'll just… go. Yep.”

He makes it to the office door before Patrick calls his name— “Hey, David?” —and he stops in his tracks, turning back like a well-trained dog. He’s beyond grateful that Alexis and Stevie aren’t here to witness this. 

“Take my truck,” Patrick says, tossing the keys across the office. 

The fact that David manages to catch them without dropping the bundle of flyers, is probably, quite likely, a Christmas miracle. 

* * *

David takes his time making the drop offs. Patrick didn’t give him a time frame in which to complete them, so when he stops by the cafe, he orders a coffee and a bagel and, because it’s the mid-morning lull, he chats with Twyla while he finishes them. He learns that she’s part of The Jazzagals, and that Jocelyn and Ronnie and Gwen are, too. 

When Twyla asks him if Alexis might be interested in joining because they’re looking to broaden their vocal range, David chokes a little on his bagel. When he’s cleared his throat and is no longer in danger of asphyxiating, he says, “Oh, god no. No. You do _not_ want that. Imagine a cat. In heat. With laryngitis.”

“OH, oh, no, probably not a good fit then,” Twyla says. 

And she sounds so disappointed that David can’t help but offer up another solution. “But, um, you could ask my mom?” 

From there, David heads to the school, where the receptionist directs him to Jocelyn's classroom. Where, after depositing the flyers, he then has a very uncomfortable conversation about his sexuality with Jocelyn, which segues into an even more uncomfortable conversation with a very rude teenager.

Town Hall is on the list, which David doesn’t understand until Roland explains that Ray did the printing at home. Roland then puts on his Santa costume for David’s approval, and proceeds to call him ‘ _Dave_ ’ no less than six times. 

By the time David makes it to Ted’s at the end of the list, he’s thinking mucking forty stalls would have been preferable to the trials he’s endured this morning.

The front desk at the veterinary office is empty when David enters, so he walks up to the counter and taps the bell. When no one appears, he rings it twice more. “Um, hello?” he calls. “I’ll just…” He sets the flyers on the desk. “Leave these—”

“David!”

Ted pops out of the back room with something unidentifiable staining his scrubs, and David takes a step back lest it get anywhere near his clothes. “I was just dropping off the flyers for…”

Ted picks one up. “Asbestos Festivus! I love it!”

David makes to slink out the door, but Ted stops him. “Oh, hey, bud, if you have a few minutes, I was hoping to run my little _Ted Talk_ by you.”

If David ever gets roped into something like this in the future, he’s going to drop the flyers and run, avoid interaction at all costs. But as he’s without a polite means of escape, he sinks into one of the waiting room chairs and nods. 

“Great!” Ted exclaims. “So I was thinking of starting with ingestibles, because that’s, you know, the meat of the topic. So we’ve got the obvious ones like no chocolate for dogs, and keep your cats away from tinsel, but actually, that goes both ways, and there’s also poinsettias and Christmas trees and ribbons and electrical cords, which might not seem edible, but let me tell you, the things I’ve fished out of some animals… Oh boy! And then there’s antifreeze and bones from the turkey, and onions! Can you believe it? Onions!”

And no, no, David cannot believe it. He cannot believe that this is his life. 

* * *

When he returns to the farm after treating himself to lunch, David finds the barn mucked and swept and Patrick in the indoor arena with a pile of lumber, several tools he can’t name, and the framework for a stage in place. 

Patrick looks up from where he’s operating some sort of air-powered, nail gun thing. “Get everything dropped off okay?”

David blows the dust from the top of the mounting block and sits. “Roland showed me his Santa costume. He called me _Dave,_ and asked me what I wanted for Christmas, _and_ tried to get me to sit on his lap. _Okay_ is _not_ the correct term for what I just went through.”

Patrick bows his head, shaking with laughter. 

“This is not funny!” David insists. “I also had my sexuality questioned by Jocelyn and was forced to mentor this snippy little ungrateful… Gah!” David growls. “And then Ted? Ted sat me down and told me all about the dangers of Christmas. Did you know blue cheese is poisonous to dogs? And that some snow globes are full of antifreeze?” 

Wiping tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand, Patrick composes himself enough to nod. “I did actually, but most people don’t. It’s good that he’s mentioning these things. I volunteered at a veterinary clinic back in high school and the holidays were always one emergency after another because people think they can just feed their pet everything they enjoy.”

David waves his gloved hands around to encompass the assortment of tools Patrick has been working with. “Mmm, and did you also volunteer for Habitat for Humanity and spend your weekends building houses?” He carefully picks up a corded machine with a serrated knife-like thing on the end. It’s not plugged in, but David still holds it away from his body and keeps his fingers far away from any switches. “Is that how you learned to use a…”

“A reciprocating saw,” Patrick supplies. “No, I uh, just spent a lot of time doing home renovations with my mom and dad.”

Carefully setting the saw back down, David tries to imagine what it’s like to be handy, to be able to take a pile of wood and metal and plaster and turn it into something worthwhile. 

He’s only very recently learned how to use a plunger to unclog a toilet (while Stevie stood by and laughed at him.) He was never taught how to turn off the water to an overflowing toilet or how to change a tire or rewire a light switch. He doubts he could even swing a hammer without breaking his thumb. The closest he’s ever come to building something with his own two hands was shouting unhelpful instructions at someone while they failed to assemble an IKEA dresser. 

Money meant never being forced to learn. It meant he never even thought to try. 

Now David kind of wants to. 

“Um, is there… Can I help with…? Is there something that I can do to help that won’t land us both in the nearest hospital?” he asks. Probably best to be realistic about his abilities here. 

Patrick grins and passes him a measuring tape and a marker. “I’m about to start laying the floor of the stage. It’s going to involve a lot of cutting to match the rounded edge of the frame, and my dad always said, ‘measure twice, cut once’.”

So David spends the next three hours carting around wood and double checking his measurements and marking lines, while Patrick cuts and nails and assembles, and slowly, the large, semi-circular stage comes together. 

When it’s all done and swept off and the tools are packed away, David stands back and clasps his hands and admires their creation. It actually looks _nice_. 

It takes a moment for him to realise that his eyes are wet. Sniffling, he wipes at them, embarrassed. When he turns, Patrick is regarding him fondly. 

David chokes back a watery laugh. “I’ve, um… I’ve never actually, physically _built_ something before? Everything in my life always just appeared, and um, wow, sorry, this is kind of gratifying? In a way I really didn’t expect?” David wipes his nose against his jacket sleeve. “God, apparently in a disgustingly emotional way.”

Patrick chuckles, but his expression is soft and he clearly isn’t laughing at David. “I get it. I do. So… hey, David?” Patrick opens his arms and steps forward. “Congratulations, man.”

And oh, they’re hugging. David leans into it and participates in the standard, manly back pat, but then it doesn’t end like he expects it to, and Patrick’s face is warm, tucked into the crook of his neck, and their chests are pressed together, and the hug fucking _lingers_ , so David allows himself to sway a little, his hands stroking over Patrick’s strong back. 

And then the lights flicker and abruptly go out. 

Patrick steps back and David reluctantly lowers his arms to allow it, but one of Patrick’s hands stays firmly planted on David’s shoulder. 

It’s not quite full dark outside, but there isn’t much light making it through the arena’s high windows. David blinks, trying to adjust to the darkness. “Um, did the—”

“—power just go out? Yeah, yeah I think so,” Patrick says, releasing David’s shoulder to pull out his phone. The screen lights up between them with a photo of Dolly and Valentina grooming each other in their paddock. The time reads 4:41 p.m.. 

Thumbing the flashlight on, Patrick points it toward the barn. “I guess we’d better turn in. Come on. Ray has a cupboard full of lanterns and flashlights and headlamps in the office. 

Once the barn is illuminated and David has reluctantly donned a headlamp of his own, Patrick pulls the door open. 

They’re greeted by a blustering gust of frigid wind and swirling flurries, the world beyond the barn doors blanketed in a heavy layer of fresh snow. 

The weather might be nice if David was merely watching, curled up in an oversized armchair in front of a roaring fire at a cozy ski resort somewhere, but as they currently have to venture out into the storm to turn in the horses, wretched is more fitting. Perhaps loathsome. 

By the time all of the animals are tucked into their stalls and pens and roosts, the snow is coming down so heavily that David can’t see Patrick’s truck where he knows it’s parked just a few metres from the door, much less the end of the driveway or the road beyond. 

David hasn’t seen whiteout conditions this bad in a decade. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says, sliding the main door’s window shut against the snow, “I don't think you're going home tonight.” He switches off his headlamp and checks that the latch on the door is secure. “Let’s head upstairs. It’s not much, but I’ve got food in the fridge and the couch folds out.”

Switching off lanterns on their way to the stairs, David presses a kiss to Valentina’s muzzle before grabbing the last lantern and following Patrick up to the apartment.

Patrick was right; it really isn’t much. The space is little more than a single, rectangular room. There’s one corner walled off that David assumes is the bathroom, but otherwise it’s about twelve steps straight ahead from the door, through the living room, and into the kitchen. There’s a small table with two chairs, and an L-shaped bank of cabinets home to an oven, sink, and fridge. David doesn’t see a dishwasher. To his right, it’s another twelve steps to the bed, dresser, and closet.

The floor is weathered barn board, and the walls look like they were primed but never painted. Except for a portion by the bed done up in pink floral wallpaper. Which David really hopes was Ray’s doing. 

It’s not a bad space as far as living quarters go. Though David’s bar for such things is more or less on the floor these days now that he’s sharing a motel room with his sister. A couple coats of paint, a duvet and some throw pillows, maybe a new rug and some photos for the bare walls, and the apartment could almost be nice. 

It’s a blank canvas right now, and David has to remind himself it’s not his to decorate. Though, friends help friends with this sort of thing, don’t they? He might never set foot up here again, so it probably shouldn’t matter to him, but he still wants to offer. 

For now, he follows Patrick’s example, setting his lantern down on the entry table so he can hang his jacket by the door and leave his boots on the tray. His hair is undoubtedly a disaster beneath his toque, but the hat is too wet to leave on so David pulls it off and tries to fluff up his flattened hair. 

There’s no mirror above the table so he can’t tell if he succeeds.

Patrick heads straight for the kitchen, but David takes a moment to pull out his phone. He flips to the selfie camera to check his hair, then texts Alexis. 

Turning on battery saving mode, David pockets his phone and grabs the second lantern before heading into the small kitchen.

Patrick finishes washing his hands and then opens the fridge. “Stove top is gas, so we won’t starve. How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?” He asks, pulling out a carton of eggs and a package of bacon. “We should use these up before they spoil.”

David _loves_ breakfast for dinner, so he nods violently and repeatedly. “I feel very positive about breakfast for dinner.” Breakfast is basically his only culinary talent. “Any chance you have pancake ingredients?” he asks as he washes the barn dirt from under his fingernails. Pancakes are the one thing he can make from memory without needing a recipe and a laughable level of instruction. 

Patrick nods and pulls out another frying pan. “Baking supplies are in the cupboard to your left. Mixing bowls are in the drawer below.” He smiles at David, his hair flattened to his head, his forehead lined with the knit pattern from his toque. His nose is still bright red from the cold, and David thinks he’s stunning in his complete unselfconsciousness. Then he says, “I won't complain if you're heavy handed with the chocolate chips,” and David is _so_ fucked.

So, yep, that’s how David ends up standing shoulder to shoulder with Patrick at the stove in the small, lantern-lit kitchen, flipping pancakes while Patrick shuffles sizzling bacon and scrambles eggs. 

They’ve got the window cracked because with the power out, the exhaust fan won’t run, and “safety first, David”. The air gusting in is bitingly cold and crisp, with just a hint of distant wood smoke. It keeps Patrick’s cheeks rosy and it smells like winter and David finds himself grinning stupidly because he forgot how much he enjoys the simple domesticity of cooking with someone. 

He's not sure he's ever done this with anyone other than Adelina. Most of his relationships haven't been the sort to exist outside of the bedroom, and the few that have, well, they relied heavily on dining out or delivery. 

Shaking that depressing thought away, David makes another grab for the plate of finished bacon. Patrick has slapped his hand away three times, and each time, the smile on his face grows. 

This time, David doesn't even get near the plate. Patrick must have a history playing some sort of sport because his reflexes are lightning fast. He whisks the plate away with a grin. “Don't burn the pancakes, David.”

And David would _never_ , so he forces himself to dedicate twenty percent more attention to his cooking, trying not to fixate on the way Patrick moves around him, casually touching and pressing. He places a hand on David’s shoulder as he reaches up into the cupboard for plates, then taps David’s hip so he can get into the cutlery drawer, and okay, maybe the last pancake ends up a few shades darker than the rest.

Plating the pancake, David switches off the burners and closes the window. Patrick has all the fixings sitting out on the counter rather than the table, and when David turns further, he finds Patrick perched on the edge of the couch with his laptop open. 

“I’m thinking we eat on the couch and watch a movie?” Patrick suggests. 

Biting back a smile, David allows his head to nod once. Not seventeen times like it wants to. “That would be acceptable, yes.”

“Any preference?”

David assumes no power means no WiFi, which means no Interflix. He steps into the living room and leans over the back of the couch. “What are my choices?” 

Patrick opens a folder on his laptop, then stands. “Don’t spend too long oscillating, David. Food’ll get cold and the battery will die.”

David glares at him, then moves to sit on the left cushion of the loveseat before lifting the laptop to his knees. Patrick’s collection is… eclectic. It spans a startling array of genres. There are movies he’s never heard of and ones he really didn’t expect. There are also a lot of sports documentaries. He keeps scrolling.

Plates and glasses clink as Patrick sets them on the coffee table, then the couch dips with his weight. 

“Oh!” David says, clicking on a movie. “Yes, yes, this will do nicely.” 

Patrick leans into David’s space to look at the screen, his chin almost on David’s shoulder, and David wants to keep the laptop right here on his thighs, force Patrick to snuggle up to see the screen. 

“The Lake House,” Patrick reads. “I’ve never actually gotten around to watching it.”

David gasps. They must rectify this tragedy immediately. He sets the laptop down in the centre of the coffee table and presses play before picking up the plate Patrick has fixed for him. 

“Have you—”

“M’kay,” David says, shaking his head as he leans forward to press pause. “So, talking during a movie? Incorrect. If you must comment or need clarification, you pause first, then speak.” 

“I mean those are just the opening titles so the movie hasn’t actually started yet, but okay, David.” Patrick’s voice is full of laughter, and David fully expects to be mocked further, but Patrick just settles in with his plate. His legs are crossed, his knee pressing into David’s thigh. “Press play.” 

So they watch the movie. Or, more accurately, Patrick watches the movie. David mostly tries to watch Patrick watch without being obvious about it. 

When their plates are both empty, Patrick pauses the movie and takes their dishes to the kitchen. 

He returns with a half-eaten tub of candy cane ice cream and two spoons. He hands them to David, then takes his seat, his legs propped up on the coffee table to mirror David’s. The apartment is cool without the heat running, so Patrick pulls the blanket from the back of the loveseat and drapes it over both of their laps before pressing play again and leaning into David to reach for a spoon. 

And David knows this isn’t a date. They’re just eating on the couch and watching a movie under a blanket because it’s cold and too early to go to bed and this is a logical way to pass the time. 

It’s not a date.

At least he’s pretty sure it isn’t. In his experience, people generally find some way to clarify that they’re on a date. Usually there’s also some uncomfortable but necessary discussion of expectations and kinks and boundaries and preferences, but David is realising that he’s used to a very specific kind of date. The type that Patrick probably isn’t the sort to indulge in. 

The fact is, he has no idea what Patrick is inclined to indulge in. And sitting here speculating isn’t doing him any favours. 

Spooning more ice cream into his mouth, David tells himself to focus on the movie.

It’s a testament to Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves that he mostly succeeds. 

When the credits roll, Patrick stands with a stretch and a yawn, his shirt riding up to reveal pale skin. David wants to pull him back down to the couch and put on another movie. 

“I’ll get you some bedding,” Patrick says, running a hand through his hair. “Do you want the shower first or?”

David shakes his head. If he showers first, there likely won’t be any hot water left. “You go ahead.”

Patrick leaves him with a pile of sheets and a sleeping bag, then closes the bathroom door for a shower so fast that he’s dressed for bed and out of the bathroom before David has wrangled the last of the bedding into submission. 

“Towels are in the cupboard and I left a spare toothbrush on the counter for you,” Patrick says, standing on one foot to tug on a sock. “The hot water tank isn’t very big, so you’ll probably only have about ten minutes before it runs out. Oh and—” Patrick digs around in a dresser drawer and turns to offer David an armful of folded clothing. “Here. Since you probably don’t want to sleep in yours.”

“Ten minutes of hot water. Such luxury,” David scoffs, nodding, fighting a smile. “But, um, thank you for the warning. And the clothes. And dinner. And letting me stay.” 

“Anytime, David,” Patrick says like he means it. Like David could just show up here out of the blue with no snow storm and no excuse and Patrick would gladly feed him and put him up for the night, no questions asked.

There’s a very good chance David has spent most of his life around some pretty shitty people.

Closing the bathroom door on that thought, David undresses quickly and leaves his dirty clothes folded on top of the toilet. The shower isn’t much bigger than the one at the motel, but the tile is inoffensive and the tub doesn’t look like it’s housed several science fair projects, so David starts the water and steps in without complaint.

Patrick’s selection of toiletries, however, are less than ideal. There’s a bar of soap, and an appalling 3in1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash that David uses because he has no other choice and he refuses to stew in barn dirt overnight. 

The hot water runs out eight minutes in. 

When he gets out, the towels, at least, are large and decently plush. 

On the counter, there’s a glass with Patrick’s toothbrush, a spare one still in the packaging, a tube of toothpaste, and a bottle of unscented body lotion. Opening the medicine cabinet, he searches for something that might allow him to fulfill at least one step of his skin care regimen. All he finds is a bottle of Tylenol, a box of Band-Aids, and a tube of Polysporin. The vanity’s drawers and cupboards hold little more than shaving essentials, nail clippers, toilet paper, and cleaning supplies. 

Admitting defeat, David depresses the pump on the body lotion, sniffing it and testing its viscosity before reluctantly applying it to his face. He really hopes it won’t make him break out. 

After pulling on the sweatpants that are a couple inches too short and the Henley that is a size too small, he brushes his teeth, attempts to gently towel dry his hair, and uses the toilet. Then there’s nothing left to do but pick up the lantern and go to bed. 

Patrick is already in his, reading a book, so David moves to the pullout and crawls under the covers and switches off his lantern. He doesn’t know what the etiquette is here. He hasn’t had a platonic sleepover since he was maybe eight and, as with most of his childhood experiences, the older he gets, the more he recognises they really did not fall within the realm of normal. 

Unlocking his phone, David scrolls through Instagram without actually absorbing a thing until he hears Patrick’s bed creak. 

“G’night, David,” Patrick says through a yawn. He sets his book down on the bedside table and switches off the last lantern, pitching the apartment into darkness. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

David sits up. “Excuse me?! Bedbugs?”

He can’t see shit, but he can hear Patrick’s laughter. “It’s just a saying, David. I don’t have bedbugs. I promise.” 

David harrumphs and settles back down, his skin twitching. “Can we please stop saying bedbugs?”

“Why?” Patrick wheezes with laughter. “Are you feeling itchy?”

David groans and turns his face into the pillow. 

He falls asleep smiling. 

* * *

And wakes up freezing. He tugs the blankets over his head and curls up as tight as he can, but it’s no use. Reaching for his phone, he looks at the time. It’s not even midnight. Alexis might still be awake, but he feels like he needs more advice than emojis can offer right now. He taps on the text chain with Stevie instead.

“David?” Patrick’s voice is groggy, but David definitely didn’t imagine it. He looks down at his phone, thumbs flying over the keypad.

David can’t pretend he’s still asleep. The light from his phone is a dead giveaway. He has no choice but to answer. He clears his throat. “Yeah?”

“Power’s still out,” Patrick observes. “Are you…?”

“Awake?” David supplies. “Yes.” He twists in the bed, tucking one ice-cold foot into the crook of the other knee. “Having concerns about hypothermia if the power doesn’t come back on soon? Also, yes.” 

“Do you, uh, want to…” 

“Hmm?”

“We could…”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. David stands, gathering the sleeping bag around his shoulders, then he stumbles over to Patrick’s bed by the light of his phone screen. “Sharing,” David says. “Would, um, probably help?”

“Agreed, agreed.” Patrick nods his head, teeth chattering. “Why- why don’t you spread that out over mine and then…” He scoots over to make room and lifts the corner of his duvet. 

So David sets his phone on the nightstand and doubles up the blankets, and then, because he’s too cold for any further hesitation, he slips under the covers. And because Patrick’s bed is only a double, there’s really no option but for their shoulders and arms to press together. 

David tries to relax and not hyperventilate like a virgin on his wedding night, because lying here stiff as a board is not going to help. “Thanks,” he offers. 

He wants to pick up his phone and continue texting Stevie, but there’s no way to do that without Patrick seeing the conversation, so he leaves it where it is, and a few seconds later, the screen goes dark. 

“Yeah, yep, sure,” Patrick says, shifting to tug the blankets higher. “Hopefully this, uh, means that Ray doesn’t have to call the coroner to haul our frozen corpses out of here tomorrow.”

David shifts onto his side to glare at Patrick, but the darkness is absolute and he can’t see anything, so unfortunately Patrick also can't see the displeasure on his face. “Okay, can we not talk about freezing to death?”

“You’re the one who brought up hypothermia.”

“Yes, well, that may have been an expeditious leap to the worst possible outcome.” David realises that his brain has a tendency to catastrophize. 

“Oh, so you think you’re probably gonna make it?” Patrick asks, because apparently, even snowed in with no power, he can’t pass up an opportunity to poke fun at David. “Because if I wake up next to your corpse, that’s gonna raise a lot of questions, David, and I may need some time to rehearse my alibi.”

“Okay, goodnight, now,” David whispers harshly, glad that Patrick can’t see the smile on his face. He’s probably not going to die from hypothermia, but it’s unclear whether he’s going to make it through the night if Patrick keeps teasing him like this. 

He likes it far too much. 

* * *

David wakes warm and a little sweaty, pinned to the bed by Patrick’s weight. Patrick’s head is pillowed on David’s shoulder, his left arm thrown across David’s waist. Their legs are tangled together, and judging by the sticky press of clothing in these areas of contact, they’ve been like this for some time. 

The apartment is muted grey in the pre-dawn light, and David isn’t sure what woke him. He wants to reach for his phone, maybe snap a picture of this so he can capture the way Patrick has his face pressed into the crook of his neck and cherish it forever, but he’s afraid if he moves, Patrick will wake and this cozy bubble of warmth and contentment will come to an awkward end. 

So instead he just lies there, with his hand motionless at Patrick’s hip, and listens to the world around him. The power must still be out, because while his body is warm, his nose is cold, and he can’t hear the typical hum of any appliances. Patrick’s breathing is deep and even and right there, but if David listens, he can hear the shifting and stomping of the barn’s occupants downstairs. 

The fact that it’s growing light out means it must be nearly 7:30. Which also means they should probably get up, but David refuses to be the one to move first. He doesn’t know what will happen when Patrick wakes. He doesn’t know if this was a conscious decision on Patrick’s part, or just some residual instinct from a past relationship. Should they discuss it? Pretend it didn’t happen? Make a joke? 

David doesn’t know. 

He knows that Patrick is hard against his hip, and that, in a perfect world, he would be in a position to do something about it. But David also knows that morning wood is often a perfectly innocent phenomenon and it likely has nothing to do with him.

So he doesn’t move. He just lies perfectly still and enjoys it while he can. Because he doesn’t know if the universe will ever gift him with this opportunity again. 

David’s nearly fallen asleep again when he feels the first signs of wakefulness from Patrick. At first it’s just a change in his breathing, then a stretch and a squeeze, followed immediately by the stiffening of Patrick’s entire body. 

Closing his eyes and forcing his breathing to remain even, David feigns sleep. What happens here is in Patrick’s hands. David will follow his lead. Even if it’s not the outcome he’s hoping for. 

So, of course, it’s disappointing when Patrick rises without a fuss or a word and heads straight to the bathroom after grabbing a change of clothes. The door closes with a bang, and the pipes groan as the shower turns on, and David figures that’s probably his cue to get up.

First, while he doesn’t have an audience, he rolls to press his face into Patrick’s pillow, inhaling deeply. It’s pathetic. Made even more so by the fact that the scent he’s trying to memorise is almost certainly dollar store shampoo. 

Rolling back over, David stretches, reaching for his phone. 

There are two messages. He replies to both.

One from Stevie:

And another from Alexis:

David closes the text chain and pulls up the local power company’s website instead. Estimated time of restoration is listed as 1pm, weather permitting. He thumbs over to the weather app next. Apparently over a foot of snow has fallen already, and they’re anticipating close to a metre total by the time the storm clears Friday evening. 

Selfishly, David hopes it might be an excuse to stay here again tonight, but realistically, if the road is plowed and visibility clears, there’s no reason for him to stay. And with the way Patrick bolted out of bed… David has experienced enough rejection in his life to know when he’s unwanted. 

Patrick is still in the bathroom, and David can’t just keep loitering here in the bed like he’s waiting for Patrick to come back, so he forces himself upright with a blanket around his shoulders and pads into the kitchen to boil water for coffee and tea. 

Oh god, he really hopes Patrick has coffee. David has only ever seen him drink tea. 

A frantic search of the cupboards and fridge produces coffee grounds, filters, skim milk, caramel syrup, and cocoa powder. There’s even a milk frother tucked in the cupboard next to the travel mugs, and David just stands there shocked until the kettle whistles. 

At which point Patrick finally emerges from the bathroom, dressed for the day in his usual attire. “Oh, good,” he says. “You found everything.” Then he smiles as if everything is normal and they didn’t just hold each other for half the night. “I know you’re particular when it comes to your coffee.”

Patrick doesn’t explain why he felt the need to stock his apartment—which David had never even stepped foot in until last night—with the makings of David’s preferred caffeinated beverage. He just slips past David and grabs a travel mug from the open cupboard. He drops a bag of earl grey into it, adds water and a splash of milk, then grabs a protein bar and a banana. “I’m gonna go feed and get the tractor started so I can plow. Help yourself to anything you want for breakfast. I’ll see you down there.” 

So David makes himself a peanut butter and banana sandwich for breakfast and eats it while he’s getting dressed in yesterday’s clothes. His trip to the bathroom is perfunctory at best, because there’s absolutely no hot water left, and there’s not much he can do but wash his face and brush his teeth and fail to fix his hair. He’s tempted to snoop further, but from what he saw of Patrick’s medicine cabinet last night, he’s not likely to find anything salacious. 

Besides, better person, new leaf, and all that. 

Tugging his toque over his already ruined hair, David checks that the stove is off and all the dishes have made it into the sink. Then he strips the sheets off the pullout, dumps them in a hamper, and folds the contraption away. He’s not quite sure it’s sitting flat, but he’s lingered up here long enough; it’s time to brave the day. 

David can still hear the tractor running from inside the shadowed barn, so he throws everyone some hay and takes his time brushing and blanketing the horses, not wanting to trudge through 30+ centimetres of snow to get them out. 

When Patrick enters the barn twenty minutes later, he’s covered in snow and his cheeks are flushed. He shakes out his toque and brushes the worst of the accumulation from his arms, but his hood must have blown off while he was plowing because it’s full of snow. 

Latching the belly straps on the last blanket, David closes the stall door and crosses the aisle to Patrick. “Here, turn around, you’re still covered.” He turns the hood inside out and shakes the snow from it, then brushes the remainder from Patrick’s shoulders. The back of his neck is flushed and damp, the hair at his nape curling slightly, and David _wants_. 

He wants things that are not his to want. So he backs up and passes Patrick a halter and lead. “Let’s get this over with.” He’s almost looking forward to mucking stalls today. Inside. Where it’s dry and relatively warm. 

By the time they finish turning out, David decides he doesn’t care how pretty the snow is, he _hates_ it. Every single latch, on every single gate, was frozen shut, forcing him to remove a glove to thaw it with the heat of his hand. Despite Patrick plowing, the walk to and from the paddocks seemed twice and hard and twice as long. He should be cold, but instead he’s breathing hard and sweating. And not in the way he’d like to be. 

David wonders if he can convince Patrick to dump his wheelbarrow for him so he doesn’t have to leave the barn again. 

Patrick just laughs at him when he suggests it. 

The power is back on by the time the stalls are done, and once they’ve got hay out to all of the feeders and the tractor back in the drive shed, David wants nothing more than to stand in a hot shower for an eternity.

The snow has slowed enough that they can see the end of the driveway from the shed, and when the plow goes by, Patrick touches David’s elbow. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home before it gets worse again.”

It’s not even 2 p.m., but the fact that he’s failed to put in a full workday isn’t why David protests. “What if the power goes out again? I um, don’t want you to die of hypothermia, all alone up there,” he jokes. 

Patrick chuckles. “I’ll be fine. Ray called while I was plowing earlier to say if the power goes out again, he’s got a generator at the house, so I can crash there.” 

And David thinks it might have been nice to know that last night, but also, he really doesn’t regret the way things played out. 

Is he mildly disappointed that Patrick didn’t linger in bed and kiss him this morning? 

Yes. But he also realises that life is not a fairytale, and that morning breath is definitely not ideal for first kisses. Besides, he still doesn’t know Patrick’s preferences, and getting his hopes up based on what was likely just Patrick instinctually seeking body heat is, god, so middle school. 

He’s got a good friend and a good job here. He really shouldn’t ruin it by wanting more. 

“Okay,” David says, nodding and fidgeting with the bundle of twine in his hands. “If you’re sure you don’t mind turning in on your own? I could definitely, um, use a hot shower that lasts more than eight minutes? Also, I’ve severely neglected my skin care regimen the last twenty-four hours, so…”

David looks at Patrick standing there with his rosy cheeks and flawless skin. “I cannot believe you use body lotion on your face and have skin like that.”

“But David,” Patrick says in his ‘ _you know, you walked right into this one_ ’ voice, and David wants to hate him. Even a little. “My face is part of my body.”

* * *

David sleeps until 11 a.m. Friday, then he spends the afternoon sitting on the floor of the love room with Stevie. They smoke a joint she found while cleaning, then raid the vending machine outside. The snow continues to fall, but the power has thankfully remained on.

They’re both lying on the floor, looking up at the mirror on the ceiling. Which is not something David would ever do while sober, but at this point he’s more concerned about Stevie hogging the all dressed chips than he is about the horrific state of the carpet. He crams a handful of Maltesers in his mouth, then waves the box at her until she trades him for the chips. 

“So you’re actually like, voluntarily volunteering at this asbestos thing tomorrow?” Stevie asks. “You’re not getting paid?”

“Mhmm,” David says around a mouthful of chips. “Doing it out of the goodness of my heart.” 

Stevie snorts and it sounds like a fucking elephant trumpeting. 

“Okay, that was both rude and horrifying.”

“Yes, well, say what you will, but I’m pretty sure your tiny Grinch heart is only doing this because it’s important to Patrick. If it was Roland asking, you wouldn’t touch any part of this Festivus thing with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole.”

David wants to refute that, but she does have a point. “Okay. Fine. That’s fair.” They swap snacks again, and David sighs. “It’s just… he’s been so excited about it the last couple weeks? And I don’t know what the situation is with him and his family because he only ever talks about them in, like, the past tense? But um... I get the impression something happened there? And he did say he kind of ran away from his old life, but that was weeks ago, and I didn't know him well enough to ask for clarification then, and I'm not gonna bring it up now, so I just… UGH!”

“You just want to make sure he has a good Christmas?” 

“Yes! And, I don't know, if my Christmas also happens to not suck, I guess that would be nice?” 

“Is your family doing anything?”

“I, um, don't think they're feeling very festive or cheerful this year? More shocked and depressed. Alexis is distracting herself with Ted, and mom had a meltdown and spent most of the week in the closet, so dad isn't thinking about anything but her.”

“Well, if nothing happens with Patrick, you're more than welcome to partake in my holiday tradition. It's like the twelve days of Christmas, but it's one day with twelve bottles of wine.” 

“Okay, well, that's definitely an option.”

David closes his eyes, remembering Christmases of the past. They were lavish and big and fun, and yet, he always recalls feeling lonely at the end of the night.

“So you said he bolted from the bed as soon as he woke up?” Stevie asks, because apparently she’s a nosy stoner.

“Like fucking Roadrunner. There one second and then, poof! Gone.”

“MEEP MEEP,” she says unhelpfully, her impression frighteningly accurate. 

David rolls his eyes at her and reaches for the Twizzlers resting on her stomach. “And I mean, he _was_ hard, but like, did he flee because he’s a typical straight dude and god forbid he have an erection in the presence of another male?”

“Or did he skedaddle off to the bathroom for a cold shower or a wank because he’s attracted to you?”

“And if he _is_ attracted to me, why run off?” David bites aggressively at a Twizzler. “Is it because he’s attracted to me physically but horrified by the thought of anything more?”

“Yeah,” Stevie says, “I’m pretty sure it’s more along the lines of he’s nice and respectful and not the sort of guy who dry humps your leg while you sleep.”

David rolls his head back and forth in frustration. “Ugh. Why is he so nice and respectful?”

“If only he’d just hump your leg,” Stevie commiserates. “Then you’d know what he’s thinking!”

David might be high, but he’s not so out of it that he can’t recognise the absurdity of that image. “Oh god.” He snorts and nearly chokes on a piece of licorice and has to sit up to cough so he doesn’t die. 

Stevie cackles with laughter, thumping him clumsily on the back until they both sober slightly. “You said he’s gonna sing tomorrow, right?”

David nods. He’s still irrationally nervous about that. Though the weed is helping. He might need Stevie to procure some more. 

“Well, he might not hump your leg, but maybe he’ll strut up onto that stage and serenade you with a heartfelt rendition of ‘ _All I Want For Christmas Is You_ ’.”

Dropping his head to his knees, David takes a deep breath before lifting it and glaring at Stevie. “Don’t joke about that."

“Why? Because you really, _really_ like him, and it would be the ultimate fulfillment of every Christmas romcom fantasy you’ve secretly always desired but never once allowed yourself to hope for?”

David just stares at her. 

Stevie smiles smugly. “I knew it.”

“Ugh,” David whines. “Why are you like this?” He reaches for the chips and devours a handful before continuing. “Okay, so yes, all of… that.” He waves his hand around, and the chips with it. “But also, um, what if he really can’t sing and it forever ruins Mariah for me and then I can’t even date him, let alone keep working with him?”

“Well, then I guess you’ll just have to call up Sebastian and sell Valentina and spend the rest of your life, lonely and single, sleeping in a motel room that you share with your sister,” Stevie says, and David doesn’t know why he thought she was going to be helpful. 

“And when you die,” Stevie continues brightly, “we can scatter your ashes in the parking lot, or, I know! Maybe we do a little digging and see if we can find a skeleton in the shed out back for you to spend eternity with.” 

* * *

When David arrives at the farm Saturday shortly after noon, the snow has stopped and the world is gilded in glittering white under a cloudless sky. The driveway and parking lot are plowed, and small paths have been cleared to the various attractions. Signage points the way, and every tree, coniferous and deciduous, within half a kilometer of the main barn has been strung with lights and ribbon. 

Come nightfall, David might almost feel comfortable deeming it magical. 

Heading into the barn, he finds Patrick in Ray's office, along with Roland and Jocelyn and Bob and Gwen and Twyla and Ronnie and Ray himself. As well as a couple other people whose names David can't seem to remember. They're all talking loudly. And dressed… festively. 

Roland is in a Santa suit as expected, Jocelyn is dressed as Mrs. Claus, and Ray is sporting an elf costume. Everyone else is wearing a truly tacky assortment of Christmas sweaters. 

It's enough to have David spinning on his heel. 

Patrick catches his arm before he can flee. “Oh good, you made it.” 

David wants to offer a snarky ‘I said I would’, but instead he just looks at Patrick's sweater and frowns. The bulk of it is an unflattering shade of Kelly green. There are also red stripes and snowflakes and horses and pine trees and a rider on a horse wearing a Santa hat surrounded by capitalized text reading ‘OH WHAT FUN IT IS TO RIDE’.

David himself is wearing a bulky, black and white, Fair Isle cashmere turtleneck under what has become his designated barn jacket. It is as festive as he intends to get, and if anyone dares approach him with a Santa hat or reindeer antlers, he will not be held responsible for his actions. “I’m not about to be forced into some hideous Christmas sweater, am I?” he asks. “I know I said I would help, but I have to draw the line somewhere.”

“No, David.” Patrick laughs. “You look good in that. It suits you.” He reaches out to touch the sweater where it’s visible beneath David’s open jacket front, his fingers stroking over David’s sternum. “Oh, it’s soft.”

David preens a little and would like to encourage further petting of his sweater, and coincidentally his chest, but Ray’s voice booms loud and startling in the already boisterous office. “Hello, friends! If I could have your attention, please! I am so glad you could all make it to what I hope will be just the first of many Festivuses here at Ray’s! Let’s get started with assignments, shall we?!”

“Is that a megaphone?” David hisses.

Patrick cringes and nods. “Yeah, I told him that would be overkill in here.” 

“Okay, so first,” Ray says, picking a file folder off the pile on the desk, “we have Roland and Jocelyn. Can anyone here guess what Roland will be doing today?” he asks as if the entire town hasn’t known for weeks. As if the man in question isn't wearing a fake beard and red velvet and jiggling his very real gut. 

The room erupts with laughter, and the fact that most of it is genuine has David rolling his eyes twice as dramatically as he would have otherwise. 

“Yes, yes,” Ray says with a little self-indulgent chuckle, “Roland here will be playing Santa and posing for photos, and our dear Mrs. Schitt will be taking on the roll of Mrs. Claus, which means, naturally, she won’t just be helping with photos, she’ll be helping this little elf—” Ray points at himself. “—with his greenery arrangement lessons, too!” 

David slumps back against the doorframe with a sigh. At this rate, people are going to start showing up before they even have their assignments. Patrick bumps his shoulder against David’s in silent commiseration, a bitten-back smile on his lips, and David thinks he might actually be able to tolerate the remainder of Ray's meeting, if it involves Patrick at his side, exchanging glances full of humor and unspoken agreement. 

Fortunately, Ray does put down the megaphone and pick up the pace. Someone named Grace gets assigned the admissions booth with Ronnie, and Bob gleefully accepts the position of parking attendant. Ivan is put in charge of skate rentals, Patrick is heading the sleigh rides, and Gwen will be selling Christmas trees. 

That leaves David working the bake sale and hot drink shack with Twyla. He's not looking forward to it, exactly, but he can stand around taking people's money. Even if he tragically doesn't get to keep any of it for himself. 

Twyla practically skips over to his side, more excited than a kid on Christmas morning. More excited than David thinks he’s ever been, short of the two summers he spent following Lilith Fair. Or every time he’s watched Mariah Carey perform live. “Come on!” she says, taking his arm. “I’ll show you how the cash register works! Unless you’d rather fix drinks? Or we can swapsies after a while! Whatever you’re comfortable with!”

David looks at Patrick, hoping for some sort of salvation, but Patrick just squeezes his shoulder and it’s more mocking than supportive. “Have fun, David.”

And despite himself, David does. In a reluctant sort of way. 

Everyone is exceedingly cheerful to the point that it should be obnoxious, but instead, it’s just unexpectedly contagious. David had intended to Scrooge his way through the afternoon, but Twyla keeps plying him with sugary, caffeinated goodness, and after sampling some of the baked goods for quality control purposes, he finds himself upselling his favourites.

While they work, Twyla tells him story after story detailing previous Christmases in Schitt’s Creek. “So there was this one year where someone thought it would be a good idea to hold a potluck at town hall. Half the town got food poisoning, and a decade later, they still haven’t narrowed down the suspect dish. Oh, and the year after that, they did a tree lighting ceremony, but the lights were faulty and the tree caught fire and nearly burned down town hall with everyone in it. Then there was the Santa photos lice outbreak. And a mishap with some borrowed reindeer. Oh, and one year the entire choir group came down with wicked laryngitis. It was eventually decided that the town hall was cursed and never to be used for anything Christmas related ever again.” 

David also chats with several of the contributing bakers, charming them into sharing recipes that he’s not certain he’ll ever be able to recreate on his own but still wants to try. 

A few hours in, his phone vibrates in his pocket, and when there’s a brief lull in the seemingly endless line of customers, David pulls it out to find a couple texts from Patrick. 

He’ll be here. He’ll even stick around to help with cleanup if it means time spent with Patrick. David pockets his phone with a smile. 

He’s spent most of his life feeling like, no matter where he went, or how he dressed, or how carefully he acted, he never quite fit in. 

So it’s a little disconcerting how at home he feels standing here in a three-walled shack/garage masquerading as a coffee/bake shop, at an Asbestos Festivus Fundraiser in a town called Schitt’s Creek. 

He’s starting to think this town and its occupants might just be his very own island of misfit toys. 

* * *

David is not a numbers guy, but he lost track of how many drinks and cookies they sold after the first half hour and the pile of cash in the register just keeps growing, so he’s certain they can call Asbestos Festivus a roaring success.

It’s five o'clock and nearly dark, and the farm is covered in lights and full of people. David can hear music and laughter carrying from the skating rink, and he can smell wood smoke from the bonfires Ronnie is tending. He’s riding a sugar and caffeine high, and it’s all absolutely magical, except for the fact that after four hours, a salted caramel macchiato, a candy cane latte, and a snickerdoodle cappuccino, his bladder is in danger of bursting. 

“I’m just going to…” David gestures toward the barn. 

Twyla nods in understanding. “Oh boy, after all those drinks! Go, go! Take your time. We’re almost out of cookies here anyway!” 

Dodging people, David makes his way toward the barn. There’s a row of outhouses in the parking lot, but his trashy festival days are over and he would much rather use a toilet that hasn’t been pissed all over by hundreds of people, thank you very much. 

Slipping into the barn, he hears voices and is about to stomp right up and inform the intruders that the stables are off limits to all but staff today, when he recognises Patrick’s voice. 

“Rach…” He sounds tired and frustrated and sad and annoyed. 

“Patty, just come home for Christmas, okay?” a female voice pleads. “Your parents miss you. _I_ miss you.” 

David catches a glimpse of a petite redhead near the stairs. She’s cute in an unassuming, girl-next-door kind of way. In a way that ties perfectly into Patrick’s small town, farm boy aesthetic. 

“We can figure it out,” she continues, taking Patrick’s hand. “We always have before, right?”

Backing quietly toward the door, David slips back out and closes it softly behind him. His decision to leave instead of continuing to eavesdrop is only a small part respect for Patrick’s privacy. Mostly it’s his bladder giving him no other choice but to make a beeline for the outhouses. 

It might also be the flicker of hope he’s been nursing these last few weeks plunging into the icy depths off a darkened lake. 

When he returns to the cash after sanitising his hands four times, he must look as despondent as he feels because Twyla picks up on it immediately. “Oh boy, were the outhouses really that bad?”

“Um, yes,” David says, “but that’s not…” He sighs. “Do you know if Patrick has a girlfriend?” 

Twyla frowns contemplatively. “He’s never mentioned one. And to be honest, I kind of get the impression he’s not all that into girls? But then again, my gaydar is not to be trusted because in high school, I once thought this guy was really into me and it turned out he had a thing for my brother, which I didn’t find out until I walked in on them—”

David clears his throat loudly as a mother with two young girls approaches the cash. 

“—uh, helping each other with homework…” Twyla finishes. “Is what they were doing. Yes, hi! Oh, that’s a great selection of cookies you have there!”

David lets the matter drop because people are still buying drinks, and it’s better to focus on the money than it is to continue spiralling through an endless array of _what ifs_. 

At quarter to six, they close up shop, and David heads out to start turning the horses in while Twyla begins directing traffic toward the indoor arena. He hopes to cross paths with Patrick, but it’s just Gwen helping him, and they rush through getting all the animals settled and fed.

An hour later, David slips into the arena. The seats are all filled, but Stevie motions him over to where she’s leaning against the arena boards with the overflowing crowd. The space is decked in warm white lights and garland and bows. The wall behind the stage is draped in silver and gold, and the stage itself is flanked by two Christmas trees. It’s all a bit garish, but the best Christmas decorations usually are. 

Roland is still addressing the crowd, so David sidles up next to Stevie and nods at the travel mugs in her hands. “What do you have there?” 

Stevie offers one to him and David pops the lid to sniff it. Steam wafts up, smelling of red wine and brandy and citrus and spice. “I figured we’d need something alcoholic to get through this,” she says.

David takes a sip and closes his eyes in delight. “Did you make this?”

Stevie nods and takes a drink from her own mug. “Mhmm. Nana Budd’s extra boozy mulled wine. The secret is to double the brandy.”

“Well, thank you. I definitely needed this. Um…” David shifts a little closer to Stevie because Jocelyn is right behind him and hopefully she’s paying more attention to her husband than to their conversation, but if the last month living in Schitt’s Creek has taught him anything, it’s that the walls have ears and there is no such thing as privacy. 

“So I think maybe Patrick has a girlfriend?” he whispers. “Or like, an ex girlfriend who is here trying to reconcile?”

“Mmm,” Stevie hums and the noise is frustratingly vague in its lack of emotion. “And you think this, why?”

“I took a break earlier to use the washroom, and outhouses are most foul, so I went into the barn. He was in there talking to this cute little redhead. Well, mostly she was talking and he was standing there looking worried and…” David takes a fortifying swallow from his mug and groans.

“Okay, so maybe he had a girlfriend at one point. That doesn’t mean he isn’t interested in you. Maybe he’s Bi? You said you’re Pan, right? There are options.” 

David nods and takes another sip, wondering if Stevie brought more. He’s too sober for this.

“Okay, so maybe don’t be too hasty to label his sexuality for him?”

“Ugh.” he groans. “I know. _I know_! Labels can be limiting and sexuality is fluid and I’m the worst for trying to box him into one. I just…”

The microphone screeches with feedback as Roland announces the first performers of the evening, and Stevie looks at him as if to say, ‘ _yes, yes, you really, really like him and you’re a ball of anxiety about it, now drink your drink and try to remember to breathe_ ’.

David finishes his wine while two dozen six to eight year-olds sing Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer and fail to wrangle livestock. By the end of the song, three of the goats are wandering through the audience, two are chewing on a Christmas tree, and Rudolph (aka Jack the donkey) has shit on the stage. 

What was supposed to be a ten minute performance, drags out into twenty, and by the time Ray and Gwen have corralled the goats and Patrick steps out onto the stage with his acoustic guitar slung across his chest, David’s heart is in his throat and his palms are disgustingly sweaty and he kind of feels like he might faint. 

Patrick steps up and adjusts the mic, looking calm and confident and not at all like he just had a run-in with an ex two hours ago and is about to perform in front of a crowd. David both hates and envies him. 

“First, I just wanted to thank you all for coming and donating so generously,” Patrick says. “We’ll do a final count tomorrow, but I’m certain we’ve more than met our goal! I hope everyone is having a great time!”

The crowd cheers and David slumps against the wall, glaring at Stevie when she proceeds to fan him with a flyer like he’s some swooning Victorian maiden with a delicate constitution. 

Patrick pats the guitar, then smiles. “Alright, let’s get this party started.”

He begins strumming, the chords soft and careful and welcoming, and then he starts singing, [“I feel it in my fingers. I feel it in my toes. Christmas is all around me, and so the feeling grows.”](https://open.spotify.com/track/4ndXEqNZmpj3uqrEPJrGHa?si=5fWccvj_Sh23EhxZ0wmMwQ)

And oh. _OH_ . Not only is it not terrible, Patrick can sing. Like, _really well_. 

“It’s written in the wind. It’s everywhere I go. So if you really love Christmas, come on and let it snow.”

Stevie elbows him in the ribs and David tries to school his expression into something semi-normal, but judging by her expression, he’s failing spectacularly. 

Patrick keeps singing, and David just stands there, alternating between biting his lip and wringing his hands and fending off Stevie’s abuse while trying to keep the smile on his lips contained. 

When the first song ends, Patrick transitions seamlessly into the next. “I’ve got to know,” he sings, finding David in the crowd. “[Where the lonely hearts go. Because I don’t want to be, all alone on Christmas.”](https://open.spotify.com/track/1OsKaym0jEGb70VyzpwPZx?si=RBVEEeKlQpatfACOjW9Sfg)

Stevie keeps prodding him, and Patrick keeps shooting him meaningful looks, and David wants to vibrate right out of his skin, because surely he’s just reading into this what he wants. These songs and their lyrics are entirely coincidental and there’s no hidden message being relayed here. David just isn’t the kind of person who gets serenade in front of a roomful of people by the guy he’s been crushing on for weeks. 

It’s all in his head. 

Except...

[“I don’t want a lot for Christmas. There is just one thing I need,”](https://open.spotify.com/track/0HonzROwvPb5rR6FvyWoem?si=tmIDNJNFSoStV6oaOSjwgg) Patrick sings, his gaze fixed on David now. 

Well, either David or Roland, and David’s self esteem has never been all that great, but he knows the odds are in his favour on this one. 

“I don’t care about the presents, underneath the Christmas tree. I just want you for my own. More than you could ever know.” Patrick is singing around a smile, and David is actually in danger of swooning, and Stevie's eyes are suspiciously wet as she continues to halfheartedly flail at him. “Make my wish come true. All I want for Christmas is you.”

When Patrick wraps up a couple minutes later with a bashful smile and a lingering glance David’s way, the chaos of grades four to six setting up begins happening on stage, and David is fairly sure the arena kickboards are the only thing keeping him upright. 

Stevie turns and stares at him. “I like this for you.”

“Like what? There’s nothing to like,” he hisses, because Patrick was actually really fucking obvious, and now people are looking at David and whispering and—

“You seem flustered.”

“I’m not flus—” David cuts himself off. “Maybe it’s the fact that the doll they chose to play baby Jesus looks like Chucky circa 1988.”

Stevie turns back toward the stage. “Oh. Wow. That’s…”

Talent wise, things mostly go downhill from there. 

But as far as hope goes? Well, there’s a little spark of it burning bright in David’s chest once more. 

* * *

It’s after 10 p.m. by the time the lot is empty and the last of the volunteers leave. The farm is finally quiet when Patrick finds him sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket in Valentina’s stall. 

The mare is sprawled in the shavings, sound asleep. David bends forward, stroking her neck in time with her breathing. 

“There you are,” Patrick says quietly as he leans against the bars and looks into the stall. “I, uh, thought maybe you went home.”

David shakes his head and looks up. “I said I’d be here.” He scratches Valentina’s forehead, then stands slowly, bringing the folded blanket with him. “I, um, just got a little peopled out.”

Patrick’s face falls. “Oh, yeah, I guess it has been a long day.” He crosses his arms and backs up so David can exit the stall. “I can— do you want me to drive you home?”

Hanging the blanket up, David turns back with another shake of his head. Patrick looks anxious and uncertain, and that just won’t do. “Mmm, no, I’m good for now. That statement was more in regards to dealing with the, um, general public?” He presses his lips together against the smile threatening to take over his face. “You are, ah, not nearly as offensive.”

David’s words have the desired effect. Patrick laughs and the tension in his shoulders melts away. “Coming from you, I’m going to take that as high praise.” 

“You should,” David agrees, nodding. And nodding. And nodding. His hold on his smile has slipped and he can feel it widening. He tilts his head toward the bench behind Patrick. “What are those?”

“Those are ice skates, David.” 

“And are you planning to strap those onto your little feet?”

Patrick looks a bit offended at having his feet referred to as little, but he doesn’t miss a beat. “I thought we might wander over to the rink and strap some on your feet, too.”

David cringes. His first instinct is to say ‘ _hell no_ ’, but as it continuously turns out, where Patrick is concerned, he’s willing to step outside of his comfort zone. “Um, will you laugh at me if I wear my riding helmet? Because I haven’t been skating in a very long time, and I have bad foot eye coordination, and I would rather not end the night with a concussion. Plus I already had a nose job following an incident with a basketball court I got for my Bar Mitzvah, so...” 

Patrick looks like he’s fighting laughter. “I didn’t know you were Jewish.”

“I’m a delightful half-half situation.” 

“Well, happy belated Hanukkah, then.” Patrick holds out a pair of skates, and David reluctantly takes them, noting that they’re his size. “And if a helmet is what you need to feel safe, David, I would never judge, but alternatively, I could hold your hand and make sure you don’t fall?” 

“Mmm.” David’s face hurts from trying to contain the smile so he gives up. “That would be an acceptable alternative, yes.”

He wants to grab hold of Patrick’s hand right now, but he’s been called clingy more than once in the past, and he doesn’t want to scare Patrick off before whatever this is even starts. 

The Christmas lights are still on, and as they walk toward the rink, gentle snow begins to fall. Patrick’s arm brushes against his, the night crisp and quiet around them, and David’s smile feels too big for his face, all this anticipation too much for his chest. 

When they reach the rink, Patrick guides him to a bench and then squats in front of him to pull off David’s boots and lace up his skates. His fingers are quick and sure, clearly practiced, and David tries not to picture Patrick on his knees in a much less innocent scenario. “You played the hockey, didn’t you?” David asks when he’s finished.

Patrick looks up at him, fond and mocking and places his hands on David’s knees as he stands. “Yes, David. I played the hockey.” He sits on the bench next to David and makes quick work of his own boots and skates. “I actually took figure skating lessons for a year when I was ten, but I just don’t have the build for it.” 

David presses his shoulder into Patrick’s and looks down at the man’s sturdy, denim-clad thighs. “Mmm, you do have legs like tree trunks,” David says in a way he hopes comes across as a compliment rather than an insult. 

Patrick stands with a laugh and offers his hands. “Come on.”

David’s legs are as wobbly as a newborn foal when he rises. “Oh god,” he says, but then his hands are in Patrick’s and they’re inching toward the ice. Patrick steps confidently onto it, steady as can be, and David cautiously follows him, holding Patrick’s hands in a death-grip. 

“There you go. Bend your knees a little and close your hip angle slightly. Perfect. Pretend like you’re riding a horse.” Patrick skates backwards slowly, pulling David across the ice. He lifts their arms up and to the sides slightly. “Don’t be afraid to use your arms for balance.”

Patrick drags him in slow circles for a couple minutes, offering gentle instruction and encouragement. “Eyes up and look where you want to go. You don’t look at the ground when you’re riding, you shouldn’t do it while skating either. There. One foot, then the other. Just lift and a gentle push, and glide. See, you’re doing most of the work now.” 

David glances down, and sure enough, he’s the one pushing Patrick backwards across the ice now. “I- can we try just one hand?”

Patrick releases David’s right hand and pivots effortlessly so he’s at David’s side. They make several laps like that and practice stopping before David thinks he might be confident enough to try on his own. “Okay. All right. I’m going to let go now,” David says, releasing Patrick’s hand and pushing away before he can second guess himself. 

There are a few hairy moments, but apparently balance on horseback translates fairly well to balance on ice skates, so David makes a few laps around Patrick, grinning like an idiot at accomplishing something most eight year-olds have a better grasp on. 

It hasn’t even been ten minutes since they laced up, and David’s ankles are already screaming in protest. “Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to strap skinny little blades to their feet and balance on ice?” he whines, trying to remember how Patrick showed him to slow down and stop. 

David allows his left foot to drag behind slightly, creating friction to slow himself down, but there’s a rut in the ice and suddenly he’s dangerously close to doing the splits, windmilling his arms to stay upright. He manages. _Just_. But he still has far too much momentum and his current trajectory has him colliding with Patrick. 

“Oof,” Patrick breathes, his arms coming up to steady David, and miraculously, they both remain on their feet. 

David’s breathless and clutching at Patrick’s shoulders, and Patrick meets his eyes and smirks and says, “You can blame the Scandinavians of approximately 1800 BC for the general idea of ice skating.”

They slow to a stop in the middle of the rink, and David squints at him. “Oh, so you do actually have a thing for sports trivia.”

Patrick tilts his head adorably, and David’s fingers flex on his shoulders. “I wouldn’t call it a thing.”

“Mkay, so that means you _were_ trying to impress me when we first met,” David teases, and they’re so close he could just lean forward and—

Patrick’s gaze flickers down to David’s mouth, and it’s almost imperceptible, but it’s the signal David needs to follow through. Sliding his right hand up to cup Patrick’s neck, David pulls himself a little closer and presses their lips together. 

It lasts all of five seconds and is the tamest kiss David has shared in two decades, so he’s not quite sure why his heart is pounding and his hands are sweaty and an unstoppable smile is trying to split his face in two. 

Putting a couple inches between them, David returns his hand to Patrick’s shoulder and clears his throat, not sure where to look or how to proceed.

“Thank you,” Patrick says after a beat. 

That gets David’s attention. He’s not sure he’s ever been thanked for a kiss before. A particularly inspired blowjob, perhaps, but never a kiss. “For what?”

“Um, I’ve never done that before… with a guy,” Patrick admits, and David just wants to wrap him up and hold him. 

“Okay,” he says, squeezing Patrick’s shoulders reassuringly, because he doesn’t understand exactly what that means in anything other than the most literal way, and it’s clear Patrick is a little out of his depth here, so maybe it’s David’s turn to be the steady one for a moment. 

“Yeah. And uh—” Patrick chuckles nervously. “—I was getting a little scared that I was gonna let you go home without us having done that. So uh, thank you, for um, making that happen for us,” he finishes, and David must be grinning like an idiot.

He wants to kiss Patrick again, but instead he finds himself saying, “So, I um, take it this means you and that cute little redhead aren’t getting back together?”

Patrick’s eyes snap up. “What?”

David taps his fingers on Patrick’s shoulders, fidgeting. “So I _may_ have overheard like ten seconds of your conversation with her earlier?”

Patrick bows his head, his hands still at David’s waist. He takes a deep breath and laughs before meeting David’s eyes again. “Yeah, you remember how I said I kinda sorta ran away from my old life?”

David nods. 

“That was what I ran away from. Um, Rachel. We started dating in high school, and we’ve broken up and gotten back together, god, so many times since, and I just kept going back because I had everything I thought I was supposed to want with her. I thought maybe if I just gave it one more try, really committed, you know, so I proposed. And she was so happy, but I just…” Patrick sighs heavily and tilts his head back to look up at the night sky for a moment before continuing. “It didn’t feel right, and I couldn’t do it. So I called it off and left, packed my bags and got in the car and ended up here in Schitt’s Creek, and up until recently, I didn’t understand _why_ it had never felt right.”

David presses his lips together and nods and reminds himself to breathe, because yeah, he wasn’t really expecting to delve this deeply into past relationships and emotional realisations tonight. 

“And then I met you.”

And yep, now David’s the one looking up at the night sky. Patrick squeezes David’s hip, and David reluctantly meets his eyes again.

“When I’m with you, David? I feel right. That kiss? That felt like my first time. All the things that you’re supposed to feel? I-I finally felt them.”

David shakes his head and blinks away tears and wonders if he can get away with avoiding eye contact, but he really, _really_ likes Patrick’s eyes, and smile, and face, and maybe a little bit of vulnerability won’t actually kill him here. “Yeah, so that is quite possibly one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard anyone say. Outside of the ‘Downton Christmas Special’.”

Patrick chuckles and David smooths his hands over Patrick’s shoulders and swallows. “If we’re, um, being honest here? You should probably know that I am very much damaged goods, and that the longest relationship I’ve ever been in was like three and a half months, and that I’ve kissed like a thousand people, but um, until now, nobody that I cared about, or respected, or thought was… nice.”

And because David is the queen of self sabotage, he adds, "So, um, now that you know all that, if you're having any regrets, I compl-"

"David. I'm not having any regrets."

David sags a little with relief. "Oh. Well, that's good. So, to clarify…" 

"I'm gay, David. And I'm not getting back together with Rachel. Also, I would really like to kiss you again."

"Okay. Yes. Good." David links his fingers behind Patrick's neck and forces his lips together because otherwise Patrick will just be kissing his teeth. "Let's do that."

* * *

David doesn’t have to work Christmas Day. Which means he should be enjoying a leisurely lie-in. Instead, he’s awake before dawn like an overexcited six year old. He and Patrick technically don’t have plans until noon, but waiting until then seems unbearable, so David rises and bundles up and is on his way to the barn well before 8 a.m., closing the door on a still sleeping Alexis. 

He half expects Stevie to be waiting outside with a snarky comment, but the parking lot is dark, the motel quiet. 

When he arrives, the horses are already out and the sky is pink with the rising sun. David finds Patrick in the barn, singing along to the radio, half-finished the stalls. 

“Someone’s been busy,” David says, announcing his presence. 

Patrick startles slightly and stops mucking, his smile bright. “Yeah, yeah. Been up since five. I’ve never been able to sleep in on Christmas. Drove my parents crazy.” He leans the pitchfork against the wall and slips past the wheelbarrow to greet David in the aisle with a kiss. “Merry Christmas, David.”

“Merry Christmas, Patrick,” David whispers into the kiss. Patrick’s arms are around his waist and David leans into the embrace. 

“Don’t suppose.” Kiss. “You wanna grab.” Kiss. “A pitchfork.” Kiss. “And help out?” Kiss.

David hums against Patrick’s smiling lips. “Mmmmm, no. I’m here as moral support only.”

“Okay, well, do you think your moral support could head upstairs and make me more tea?” Patrick asks, slowly stepping out of the embrace. He hands David his empty travel mug. “There may be a few cookies left on the counter.”

“I guess I could do that,” David agrees because cookies are his kryptonite and Patrick knows it. 

So David heads upstairs, and puts water on to boil, and then stands there eating cookies while eyeing the gift with his name on it suspiciously. It’s rectangular and wrapped, too big to be jewelry, too small to be clothing. 

When he’s readied a tea for Patrick and a coffee for himself, David carries them down with the present tucked under his arm. 

Patrick takes the tea gratefully, and with his hand freed, David waves the present in Patrick’s face. “Um, excuse me. What is this?”

“That would be a present, David.”

David rolls his eyes. “And why did you get me a present? We didn’t say anything about doing presents!”

He has mixed feelings about presents. Probably thanks to a lifetime of ill-suited gifts from his dad. On one hand, it’s something someone bought for him, which now that he’s broke, is even more touching, but on the other hand, what if it’s awful and he has to fake gratitude? 

It’s the Schrödinger's paradox of presents. Will he love it or hate it? He can’t know until he opens the box. 

“Just open it, David. It won’t bite,” Patrick insists, laughing. 

So David does, tearing into the paper to expose a box with an image of yellow deerskin gloves on it, and oh no, he can already feel his face doing something unfortunate. “Um, thank you,” he says as politely as he can manage, though he’s sure his expression is completely negating any attempt at congeniality. 

Patrick’s lips are pressed together like he _knows_ how much David _hates_ the yellow gloves that everyone in Schitt’s Creek seems to own. “Try them on,” he insists.

And it’s a testament to how much David likes Patrick that he’s even considering it. He’ll put them on this once. Then he’ll find a way to destroy them, or pretend to lose them, and just… pray that Patrick doesn’t insist on replacing them. 

Popping the tab on the box, David shakes the gloves out into his left hand. 

And oh. 

They aren’t yellow.

They’re black. Rich and buttery soft, and when David slides his hand into one, it’s a perfect fit. He pulls on the other, too, trying to bite his smile back into something more manageable before looking up at Patrick. “These are very nice, thank you,” he says, stepping into Patrick’s space, smoothing gloved hands over his strong arms. “But I, um, didn’t think we were doing presents, so, I uh, didn’t get you anything…” 

Patrick’s hands land on David's hips, steady and reassuring. “Sure you did.”

“Mmm, no, I think I’d remember that.” David pinches his thumbs and fingers together on Patrick’s shoulders. “I don’t even own wrapping paper.”

“David?”

“Hmm?”

“In case you’ve forgotten, all I want for Christmas is _you_.”


End file.
